


What Will I Do When I Don’t Have You (When I Finally Get What I Deserve)

by starberby



Category: Benjaminutes - Fandom, Riftdale - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Bath, Crime, Drug Abuse, Guilt, M/M, Makeouts, Murder, OOC, Secret Relationship, Soft Boys, caring and sweet christian tho he hides it well, christian’s stink, cw blood, disrespect towards religion?, everyone gets broken in this fic sorry, flawed coping mechanisms, life-threatening injury, lots of fluff too tho, not being a good cop, oh boy, same with with chief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-04-23 13:25:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14333397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starberby/pseuds/starberby
Summary: Follow-up to “Before the Threat Neutralizes You”, I guess can be read stand-alone too.If it’s possible to fuck things up further, Christian finds a way. Simultaneously, Chief knows he’s dooming himself through his actions, but he can’t avoid them. Meanwhile, Smith grows increasingly worried about his partner, and Bart is doing a really bad job of being a hostage.Title and taken from the Mountain Goats’s “Oceanographer’s Choice”





	1. 1

Christian knows he’s burning the votive candle at both ends. He’s strapped for cash, the cops are riding his ass, and he’s barely been lucid amidst the stress and coke. And yet, as long as there’s another way to fuck up, he finds it. 

It’s a miracle—no, he knows there’s no such thing as miracles—but it’s crazy luck, maybe, that he didn’t get caught at the bar last night. He thought he had the time to relax for an evening, but then the fucking *chief(ish) of police* waltzed in, brooding melodramatic atmosphere in tow. And things looked bad. They *got* bad. Then, surprisingly, they got better, which makes everything else a hell of a lot worse. 

He doesn’t want to talk about it. 

“Ah, hello, Christian,” Bart greets him once he returns to their shared motel room. Christian replies by shoving the artist out of his way, trudging towards the bathroom without a word. Bart falls to the ground but picks himself up quickly, readjusting his stupid beret. 

“Yes, I figured that would be your response,” he says, and follows Christian, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. God, can’t he take a hint when Christian wants to be left alone? “You look more disheveled than usual.”

“What’s wrong with the way I look?” Christian stares Bart down, watching him shrink against the door. This almost makes Christian smile; after all, Bart’s a hostage. He should be scared. He doesn’t mean anything. Right?

Christian thinks back to what he said at the bar. He called Bart his “Smith”, and the thought makes the crook’s fists clench. *Disgusting*.Chief obviously cares about his partner, and Christian would never say the same about Bart. It was just a slip of the tongue, a mistake he made because he was too caught up with . . . other things. Which, again, he doesn’t want to talk about. 

Meanwhile, Bart’s blabbering on, trying to backpedal. “Nothing’s wrong, you look great. You just seem a little out of sorts right now. You were gone all evening, after all. I guess that ‘errand’ you had to attend to ran long?” 

“None of your business,” he grumbles, then slams the door. Then he turns around, ready to take his first shower in a week. 

Christian isn’t a dirty person on purpose. A while back, it just became easier to not bother. If he doesn’t take care of himself then he doesn’t need to think about himself, and with the lifestyle he leads, he finds paying attention only makes it hurt more.

Every now and then, however, he feels the need to get clean. He lets his clothing drop off of him like shedding a skin, all the coke-powdered, alcohol-soaked, blood-sticky fabric dropping to a nasty nest around his feet. He doesn’t want to look in the mirror but he catches himself too late; his eyes stare back and they’re every cliche about tiredness he’s ever heard. “Hauling bags like they’re ready to skip down,” as he’s recently been told. He hated it when he heard it but it’s true. 

Into the mildewy shower, turning the water onto the hottest setting as he scrubs scum. It all looks brown when the water swirls it away, like it’s only dirt. He can never believe how easy t is to get clean again. 

Once he’s done, he yells at Bart to hand him pants and a shirt. Overtop it goes his priest outfit, his sister skin. He forces himself to care enough to brush his teeth, then he’s done.

“Wow!” Bart actually gasps when Christian emerges, and Christian really should be allowed into heaven for the restraint he practices, not throttling Bart then and there. “You look great, Christian! Really spiffy.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Christian tries to play it off. But his heart is beating heavily, fluttering like a moth in clasped hands. He doesn’t think he’s felt anything this real since—since before all this. 

He doesn’t want to think about it. But before he came back to the motel, he got another burner phone. On it, a single contact is saved. 

He keeps the phone on him, tucked into his outfit so it sits against his chest. He feels its weight, so light and ostensibly meaningless, as he and Bart leave the motel. 

Calling the number could kill him But there’s nothing else he’s wanted to do so badly in his life.


	2. 2

Chief can feel the questions buzzing around Smith’s head. He knows the kid’s begging to ask what happened last night, why Chief came back to the cruiser so . . . *off*. Quiet and concave, keeping more to himself than usual, just wanting to get home. Chief wants to explain but could never let the kid know. He can barely believe it himself. 

He gave Christian his number. He has no clue if the criminal will use it, or if this experience will end up tucked into the past, muddled in with so many other mistakes and regrets. That seems like the likeliest option, and Chief doesn’t want to admit how nervous that makes him. 

As Chief exits the cruiser Smith’s mouth is taut, but it stays shut. The kid does have some sense, and knows that it’s not a good time to ask questions. For that, Chief’s thankful. 

He enters his new apartment, a temporary home in a run-down building, meant to keep a roof over his head for as long as he’s in Riftdale. He collapses right onto the bed, wishing for sleep, but it doesn’t come for him. He can taste Christian from the cocaine numbness on his lips. 

\---

“Hiya, Chief!” Smith is hyper as ever when they meet up for work. Chief nods a greeting and accepts a coffee when Smith pushes one into his hands. Everything’s normal. Has been ever since that mess of a night, nearly a week ago. Smith and Chief are on the case. Chief is good at his job. No questioning either of these facts. 

Within the last few days, they’d managed to track Christian and Bart to a room at a local motel, but the pair had already moved on by then. Chief managed to dig up more information about the hostage, ‘discovering through a hunch’ that the poor civilian was named Bartholomew, and from there his identity was matched to that of a starving artist who was allegedly on vacation. Some relaxing getaway, in the clutches of a murderer. Chief bit his tongue before he could mention that the scenario wasn’t as bad in practice. 

Now, he and Smith are searching for more leads, but there’s not much to go off of. At the end of the shift, there’s nothing to do but go home again. Smith drops Chief off and, with an enthusiastic wave goodbye, heads to his own apartment in the same building. Chief is ready to clean up, eat a bit, and head to bed. 

Then his phone rings. 

His hands are clumsy with desperation as he pulls his phone out. Smith’s the only person he really has a relationship with in Riftdale, and there’s a slim chance it’d be the other cop now, which leaves only one option for the caller. Chief answers, trying to swallow the stone in his throat. “Hello?”

There’s some white noise on the other line. “It’s me,” comes Christian’s deadpan, quietly. 

“Yeah, hi.” Chief swallows again. God, the pressure of all the things he can’t say is life-threatening. Luckily, he doesn’t have to fill up much silence, because Christian is already talking again. 

“Do you want to meet me somewhere?”

“Yes.” Please, yes. “What location?”

“Why not my old motel room? You already know the way, it seems.”

Chief smirks at this. “Sounds good.”

“I’ll check in under a fake name. Something nobody would connect to me, like . . . Ben. I’ll tell them to keep a key ready for you.”

Before Chief can reply, the line’s dead. Right away Chief’s dialing a taxi service, heading out into the night to meet a known criminal. He can hardly wait. 

\---

Christian swallows down a dry mouth. He takes his gun off safety and holds still in the shadows of the hotel parking lot, waiting to have his hopes crushed. A taxi pulls up and a familiar form climbs out, carrying something, moving uncertainly. Christian’s eyes narrow but he remains still as he tracks the figure. 

Chief enters the check-in, comes out, and makes his way to the motel room, glancing around as he slowly walks. He doesn’t see Christian. Up the stairs to the second floor, to the door of the room, taking a second with the key; Christian breaks into a run and is in the doorway by the time Chief has taken a few steps in.

He aims his gun at the cop’s head. Chief heard him arrive, and has swung around to aim  
his own gun at Christian. The two of them stand there, the moonlight illuminating shards of Chief’s face while casting Christian in shadow. Christian eventually flips the lightswitch on, and through the dirty yellow light the two men stare down.

“You know you can’t shoot that,” Christian says. Chief repositions his hand on the trigger. 

“If this is an ambush, it means I know Smith is wrong. Then I’ll have no problem doing what needs to be done.”

“You’re alone?” Christian asks.

“Yes,” Chief gives a measured reply. “You gonna shoot that?”

Christian lowers his gun slightly, aiming at the chest. “Only if you try to take me in.”

“I only brought the gun in case you were going to pull something.”

They stare at each other a few moments more. Slowly, they put away their weapons—Chief to his holster, Christian sliding it into his jacket. Christian closes the door behind him, but doesn’t take his eyes away. His gaze falls to the plastic bag in Chief’s other hand. “What’s that?”

“I just got off shift and haven’t had time for food, so I thought I’d pick us both up something to eat.” He sits on the edge of one of the beds and starts unpacking the goods: premade sandwiches, chips, whiskey, and a little carton of white milk. “For you,” Chief says about the latter, offering it up. Christian moves stiffly, like an animal being lured, but he takes it and sits down, on the other side of all the food.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. He feels a bit like he’s being patronized, made fun of, but Chief is already moving on, cracking open a plastic sandwich container like it’s a treasure chest and taking a hungry bite of a turkey club. Christian isn’t the type to make sure he’s eating regular meals, and he realizes that he is pretty hungry. The next few moments are full of silence except for the sounds of mastication. Christian shovels food into his mouth quickly, because damn, he forgot how nice it is to feel full. 

He does drink the milk, cracking it open and chugging it because sips feel too childish. It dribbles down his chin and he wipes the mess away. When done, he looks over to see Chief staring.

“What.”

“You didn’t use this meeting as a setup. You’re not trying to kill me.”

Christian rolls his eyes. “Well, not *now*. What about you? Any second now, is your little boy wonder going to show up with reinforcements?”

Chief shakes his head. 

“Well,” Christian says, “looks like we’re equally terrible at our jobs.” 

Chief doesn’t answer to this. He takes their garbage and disposes of it, then turns around to face Christian, who leans back on the bed. 

“If we’re going to do this, we need to have ground rules,” he says. Christian cocks an eyebrow.

“And what is ‘this’, exactly?”

“The two of us. Meeting up. We need to agree that it’s not going to be an ambush from either party.” Chief moves to the motel windows and pulls the curtains shut. “That it won’t interfere with our daily lives, and that neither of us will use it for blackmail.”

“What makes you think my word is worth anything?”

“What makes you think anyone else is trustworthy?” Chief shoots back. “Neither of us are the type to agree to things blindly. Even if we only have our words, then, by making the agreement, we give each other’s promise value.”

“That sounds like some boy scout bullshit,” Christian says.

“Fine. Then what about this?” Chief faces Christian again, folding strong arms over his chest. “I’ll know you’ll keep your word, because you want this as badly as I do.”

“You’ve still neglected to explain what, exactly, we are talking about, officer.”

Chief glares at him hard. Then he strides over to the bed, cups Christian’s face, and kisses him.

Christian pulls Chief onto the bed. At first, the way the cop’s body traps Christian makes him squirm, but then he notices the way Chief makes his weight hover, the care he takes to keep Christian comfortable. Chief works his way down to Christian’s collarbone and they both hum in delight.

They end up falling asleep together, on top of the covers with their clothes on, tangled in each other like they were pieces made to fit.


	3. Chapter 3

Chief sleeps like a dead man and wakes up like one, too; his hand shoots out like the first shot in a zombie movie as he shakes himself awake, groaning. Out of habit, he swipes for his phone on his nightstand, but finds nothing. He sits up, rubs the sleep out of his eyes. He’s alone in the motel room, and his phone is buzzing anxiously in his pants’ pocket. 

Chief checks his phone screen. The time is well into what’s supposed to be his shift, and Smith’s been calling nonstop. Even now, the current vibrations end and register as another missed call, only for a new one to start up right away. He sighs and answers groggily, “Yep?”

“Chief! Chief, where are you?” Smith’s voice gets high when he’s worried. He sounds even more like a kid than usual. “I thought something was wrong, so I used the key you gave me to get in your apartment but you—weren’t there.”

“Yeah, sorry, I lost track of the time.”

“Well, where are you? I’m in the squad car, I’ll pick you up.”

“No,” he licks his lips, thinks of an excuse. “I’m almost back at the station, anyway. I’ll meet you there, okay?”

“Are you sure? Because it’s no trouble—“

“I’m fine, Smith. I’ll see you there.” He hangs up before he has to deal with more questions. 

Chief gets out of bed. Christian must have woken up early and left before Chief could see him. It’s understandable, really. Chief tells himself this, and then there’s nothing more to stall with. He leaves the motel. 

\---

“Chief!” Smith has traded worry for excitement by the time they meet up at the station. The younger officer races up, and his eyes are bright, but after seeing Chief in person his face falls. 

Chief is confused until he actually looks down at himself. He’s wearing the same clothes from yesterday, which are wrinkled like an origami piece and stained with remnants of last night’s dinner. He realizes he probably smells, and that he should have stopped at his apartment before showing up. But that would have taken time, and he told Smith he was already on his way. He looks at the kid’s disappointed face and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Sorry about keeping you waiting,” he says. “I . . . forgot my alarm.”

“That’s fine,” Smith replies, and smiles, but the expression is like a tent pole trying to prop the rest of him up. His face really wants to fall; Chief doesn’t know what Smith thinks happened last night, but it can’t be good.

“Let’s head out,” Chief says. “You can lead the patrol today. Talk to dispatch as much as you’d like, and handle the criminals whatever way you want.”

This is a good distraction. “Really?” Smith’s hands ball up in excitement. Chief nods, and the younger cop all but clicks his heels together on their way to the squad car. Chief can’t help but smile.

They end up having a really good day. It’s nothing more than chastising a series of jaywalkers and speeding cars, policing the mundane crimes, but Smith is friendly to everybody and feels like he’s really making a difference. At lunch, they stop in at a local café, their usual break spot. Chief hasn’t had anything to eat yet today and orders two Reubens, and Smith gets a Monte Cristo. Alongside these come their usual coffees, Smith’s being more like a cup of milk with a bit of caffeine poured in. Chief takes his black.

They eat in comfortable silence for a while, with the light streaming over their table and the clinking of cups sounding near-musical in the background. It’s these moments Chief cherishes; the colour of this dimension beats any shades of gray he’s ever seen. His partner’s happy, and he’s feeling content, for once. But all Smith has to do is aim his fork for his side salad and the mood is broken. Because the kid goes to stab a lettuce leaf and misses, and it’s the smallest little thing, but the lack of depth perception draws Chief back to the eyepatch. It reminds him that from now on, every little action of Smith’s is disrupted, because of Chief. 

Smith handles the setbacks well. He’s no longer allowed to carry, due to his vision problems, but he grins and says he never liked guns, anyway. Legally, Smith shouldn’t be driving, but Chief lets him and it’s no big deal. And the pain? Smith pretends not to have any, but Chief sees it in his peripheral vision, when Smith thinks he isn’t being watched. He gets headachey, dizzy, and it must feel worse than it looks. 

Chief pushes his plate away. He’s not hungry any more. Smith takes this as a sign that Chief’s ready to get down to business, and beams while pulling a file from inside his jacket, spreading the contents onto the table. 

“What are these?” Chief scans the papers, which are mostly photographs of various art pieces. He holds up an image of . . . the Mona Lisa? It’s a horrible rendition, and Chief’s not artistically-minded, but even he can tell it’s the kind of terrible that’s not on purpose. The artist just sucks. 

“I’ve been looking more into the hostage, Bartholomew,” Smith explains. “I think he’s the key to our criminal being taken in without violence. After all, the other hostages never lasted long. This one is special. Bart is cared about.”

“That . . . sounds possible, actually,” Chief says, although he can hardly believe it. Christian did seem to care about Bart, although the two of them haven’t talked about it. 

“You really think so?” Smith exclaims. “I mean, I think so. You’re normally pretty skeptical of my plans, though.”

“No, I think it’s good. What other info have you got?”

“Okay! So,” Smith spreads the papers out further, “it appears that Bart has a minor online presence. I’ve been finding images of his art and matching them to pieces that have been sold off, following a line that matches the travels of our criminal. Bart’s art shows that he . . .” Smith looks at the examples and smiles with his lips closed, “tries really hard. He even posts videos online, giving others advice. I think the fact that he’s allowed to do this shows a soft spot in our crook, and it helps us gain information! Bart is really oblivious to all the details he lets slip to the viewers.”

“Nice work,” Chief says, and he’s sincerely impressed. “We should be able to piece together where Christian’s heading.”

“What?”

“I said we can find out where Chris—“ Chief swallows. Shit. “I mean, the Priest. This information can help find him.”

Smith’s eyes narrow. “Why were you calling him Christian?”

Chief scratches the back of his head. “Listen, Smith.” 

“Have you been doing investigating without me?”

“Uh, yeah.” Chief jumps on the excuse, then tries hard to look apologetic. “I didn’t want to involve you in it because it was dangerous, but I’ve done some digging. I found out some details about the Priest. He goes by Christian, it seems, although I can only assume it’s a fake name. Still, it may be a lead.”

“Is this why you weren’t home last night?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry for worrying you,” Chief says.

“Well, if you got information, it’s no problem!” Smith perks up again. “What else do you have?”

Chief pauses. “I think you’re right that he cares about Bartholomew. You’ve got a good lead, and the amount of work you’ve done already is great. I’d say, keep up the good work.”

Smith’s smile lights up the room. “Honest? I mean yes, sure thing, Chief. Man, this is great! I really believe this case is going to work out.”

The kid takes another bite of his sandwich and starts blabbering about all of Bart’s art, and the little details in the backgrounds of the pictures. Chief sits back and lets the words wash over him, his mind going over the information they already know. 

Maybe this will all work out, after all.


	4. 4

Christian wakes up early. Chief is still asleep, snoring, and Christian only needs to fight the urge to say goodbye for a moment. 

He leaves the motel and treks home, despite it being a long way. It’s not a nice walk. The spring, a season usually associated with beauty and rebirth, has brought nothing to Riftdale but mud and cold. Christian fights the wind for his breath as he makes his way home, or rather, to as close to home as he can get. God knows what the warehouse on the outskirts of Riftdale was originally used for, but right now, it’s a sufficient hiding spot. When he gets there, the main landing is filled with newspapers carpeting the concrete floor, paint tubs stacked in pyramids here and there, and papers and canvases splattered with colour drying wherever they can be set. “Where did this shit come from?” Christian asks the empty air.

“Oh! Hello, Christian!” Bart pops up from behind a stack of paint. He’s splattered with colours, including a big crimson glob obscuring his glasses’ right lens. His smile is huge. “I thought I’d pop out for a quick supply run, as you forgot to buy me food again.”

“Oh.”

“On the way, I found an art store! So now I’m working on my newest pieces. I call them splat art, or *Splart*!”

“Uh-huh.” Christian’s distracted, looking around at all the pieces. They look . . . really stupid. He wonders how much he could sell them for. Then he catches up to the conversation. “You left without my permission?”

“I, well—“

“I’ve told you, you are to stay here unless I say otherwise. You want a bullet in your brain, Picasso?”

“But, Christian,” Bart pleads, “you left before I could ask you permission, and I had no clue when you’d be back. You just said you were going out, and that I shouldn’t fuck anything up while you were gone.” He mutters, “You didn’t leave anything for dinner, and I went to bed hungry. Though, as an artist, I am used to—“

“Much, much worse conditions, yeah, I know. Listen, just—try to stay under the radar, okay? Don’t be making a scene out there. I have more than my share of trouble without you drawing the cops over to us.” 

Christian doesn’t stick around to finish the conversation. Bart is spineless; he’ll stay in line as long as Christian roughs him up once in a while. It’s like taking care of a particularly boring pet. Christian makes a mental note to go on another food run, then heads to his nook, a corner of the warehouse he’s cornered off with the use of discarded pallets and empty metal tubs. It’s his area for ‘priestly business’, which means it’s where he does obscene amounts of coke and gripes over how much he hates existence.

He picked up some blow before heading to the motel, and since he woke up he’s been aching for a hit. He didn’t want to do anything in front of Chief, of course. That might have crossed a line. 

He takes the drug from inside of his jacket and pours a small heap onto a table he’s set up from leftover metal sheeting. He crushes any lumps with a credit card, then does the lines in quick succession. He sniffles a few times, wipes his nose, and sighs contentedly. 

He’s been getting distracted, lately. More and more time passes between hits, and he’s been feeling the effects: pains, fatigue, depression—not that those aren’t present when he’s high, either. But they don’t call cocaine ‘angel dust’ for nothing, and the drug is the closest he can get anymore to feeling holy. The buzz of it runs through him and he feels like Icarus, trying desperately to get his feet off the ground.

Christian spends the rest of the day ‘doing the lord’s work’. He’s got a pretty snazzy online scheme set up, scamming people out of their cash in exchange for salvation. He even manages to swipe a piece away from Bart, who’s gone back to being in an inspired frenzy and probably won’t remember how many paintings he made by the end of it. Christian sells it to a chump for a cool grand, and as soon as the money transfers into his account, he’s off to spend it. He buys cocaine, staple foods, and a small carton of milk, which he tells himself is for Bart. He ends up drinking it on the way back, tossing the container on the side of the road. Whatever.

While running errands, he definitely doesn’t think about the cops. Or, he doesn’t think of them in ways other than how to avoid them. He totally isn’t wondering how soon he can call Chief again without sounding needy. No way. No how. Besides, if anyone was the one in too deep, it had to be the cop. He’s the one who’s always throwing himself at Christian, always clinging, so desperate for any affection.

Christian’s ‘been’ with people before. He knows the only thing he has going for him is that the act of dating him is rebellious; normal people like to give in to bad ideas, and he’s a flashing lightbulb above a demon’s head. When it comes to Chief, though, Christian can really tell how badly the cop needs it. Chief’s daily life must be exhausting, always being on the job, pretending to be so goody-goody even when he’s a fuckup like Christian. What the two of them have is the only outlet Chief gets for all of his mistake-making.

“That’s the only reason he’s with you,” Christian mutters to himself. “You’re a break from the pressure. A way to unwind. You’re a tool, a toy.” 

It makes his heart feel concave. He wants to do something. Steal something, fight someone, cause havoc. Instead, he returns to the warehouse. Bart is still at it with the splatter art. Christian takes the grocery bags and sets them where he knows the artist will find them, and hopes that he bought enough to keep Bart content for a while. A part deep inside him thinks of his hostage without food and he wants to kick himself, and then he wants to kick the part of him that makes him feel bad. Bart’s a tool, as much so as Christian is to Chief. He shouldn’t care how Bart feels. 

So he doesn’t. He leaves Bart to his own devices, heading online to pull more scams, and he hopes that by the end of the day, he’ll have enough cocaine whittling his senses down that he can live without guilt. For an evening, at least.

\---

Christian never paid much attention to Smith. After all, with Chief in the picture, calling the shots and taking no shit and staring everyone down with that noir-cop smoulder, how could some perky kid share the limelight? Christian’s not the type to express emotions, but he will admit he’s always found Chief attractive, even before he knew he’d get to act on his feelings. You can think a guy’s hot and still hate him, after all.

Now that he’s actually involved with Chief, however, he’s picking up on how important Smith is to the older cop. It’s more than a matter of being a role model, or of having guilt. Chief *loves* Smith, more than Christian could ever hope to love anything. It’s the type of love they show in feel-good movies and television commercials, and normally it would make Christian sick. But Chief will mention that yellow is Smith’s favourite colour, or that Smith made matching friendship bracelets for the whole police squadron, or that a lady called in about a cat stuck in a tree and Smith made them both head out and rescue it. And then? Then Chief smiles. Just a little curl of the side of his mouth, a shy expression, but it makes Christian feel sober for a second. 

Christian wants to cause a smile like that. Hell, he just wants to see it, even if it’s not because of him. So, one morning when the two of them are preparing to leave the motel, Christian asks, “How’s the kid doing?”

“What?” Chief looks up from re-tucking his shirt. “Oh. He’s good. Very excited, dispatch says a suspect for a local robbery got brought in and we get to interrogate her. Of course, Smith’s great at playing Good Cop.” 

Christian nods, and looks down at himself. “Nice. Nice.”

Chief clears his throat. “How’s Bart?”

“Getting on my nerves. All of his splatter art dried right to the newspaper he set it on, or straight on the ground, too. Now he won’t stop wailing about the required destruction of his artistic genius or some bullshit.” Christian grumbles the usual tale, but something about Chief being there makes him add, “I guess I’ll help him scrape all the dried paint off the concrete once I get back. I mean, it would keep him busy to do it alone, but I should be keeping a closer eye on him, anyway.”

Chief is about to reply, but his phone rings. “It’s Smith,” he says, “I have to go.”

“Bye,” Christian says. Chief’s already out the door.

\---

When Christian gets back to the warehouse, Bart’s on his hands and knees with one of Christian’s coke credit cards, trying to scrape away a dried puddle of fushia. “Move it,” Christian says, and gets down beside him, pulling out two paint scrapers he just bought and handing one to the artist. “You have to put a lot of power into it. Feed it your anger,” he orders, and jabs a large chunk free of the floor.

“Thanks, Christian!” Bart says, following with similar motions. “That’s really nice of you to help.”

Christian doesn’t take his eyes off of the floor. “Don’t mention it.”


	5. 5

On average, Christian and Chief meet up three nights a week. It started off slow, but the longer they’ve been meeting up, the more often they do it. The number is already leaning towards four. 

Most of the meetings have included eating shitty takeout in the motel room, maybe watching a bad horror movie on the TV, and trying to ignore the tension filling the room like carbon monoxide. Neither of them are comfortable with the other yet, with giving up their usual roles to just *be* together for a night. Christian likes to point out that he’s outside of Chief’s professional grasp, eluding him and Smith even if Christian and Chief currently share a room. Chief, on the other hand, is vocal about the job he has to return to each morning—there’s a lot of responsibility involved with police work, after all. 

Regardless of initial discomfort, however, the late nights always turn out the same way. They pretend it’s pure happenstance when they end up intertwined, but Chief wraps around Christian like he’s trying to shield the crook from something, and Christian holds onto Chief like there’s a threat of falling.

Once they disentangle, they pretend none of it ever happened. Chief makes sure that if he spends the night with Christian, he gets up early enough to return home before Smith finds out. Christian doesn’t bother to sneak around, but he’ll be wearing a halo before he tells Bart anything about where he disappears to. If he wakes up first, he leaves without telling Chief goodbye.

They’ve been sneaking around for almost a month when the pattern finally changes. It’s a Saturday evening, and they’ve been together long enough that their individual trepidations have smoothed out, and only the need for closeness remains. Chief has Christian pinned to the bedspread and is making his way to Christian’s collar bone when he murmurs, “Peach,” into the crook of Christian’s neck.

Christian blinks up at the ceiling. “What?”

“You’re peach,” Chief says, feeling a twinge of embarrassment. He’s so wrapped up in the moment, however, that he continues without much thought, “it’s the colour of your skin. It’s amazing.I want to lick it off of you, kiss the colour until it’s a part of me.” He plays with the opening of Christian’s jacket, looking at it between kisses to Christian’s jawline. “You can dress in colour, too. God, the way you’d look in pastels.”

Christian snorts. “Pastels?”

“Mhm.” Chief doesn’t care about the reaction. He goes on, “something soft, and calming. Like blue.” He smiles into Christian’s skin. “I love blue.”

Christian lies still for a moment. His heart is trying to kick through his ribs, and his jaw clenches hard. He’s never been talked to like this. Ever.

“I—I don’t know,” he says, squirming. “I actually, I kind of like the grayscale.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious. Look.” Chief has his hands under Christian’s shirt, and the crook pulls the fabric up to show where their skin connects. Sure enough, where they’re touching, Christian’s stomach is fuzzy gray. “It’s like an aura. Maybe you’re transferring stuff to me. Your having-shit-together-ness. It’s nice.”

He looks up at Chief, who’s stopped kissing to stare back with wide eyes. Christian blushes. “Whatever. That’s stupid.” He tugs his top down, squirms his way free, and starts towards the door.

“I should go. I have shit to do, and you should get back before your wonder boy notices you’re gone.”

He’s opening the door when Chief stands up. “Christian, wait.”

“What?” it comes out as a bark. Chief walks over and gives him a soft, slow kiss. When they part, Chief looks at him deeply.

“Take care, okay?”

Christian stares at him before nodding. Then he leaves, slamming the door behind him without meaning to.

*Take care*. Yeah, whatever.

\---

It’s unusual for either of them to contact the other directly after meeting, but Christian’s been hanging around the warehouse for less than an hour when his burner phone rings. He answers hesitantly. “Hello?”

“My day off is tomorrow,” Chief says, clearing his throat. “Are you free to meet up?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess?” He’s cooled off some since he left the motel. All the ‘feelings’ were making him nervous, but he still wants to see Chief again. “Should I bring dinner this time?”

“I actually thought we could meet up earlier, in the afternoon. Spend more time together.” 

Chief clears his throat again. Christian smirks; he likes when people are nervous around him. It’s his usual territory. “I don’t know,” he says slyly. “What are you planning to do with all this time?”

There’s a long silence. Then Chief says, “Id like to give you a bath.”

Christian clenches his jaw. “Ha ha,” he deadpans.

“Listen. You smell like shit. You don’t take care of yourself.”

“Why would I want to?” he retorts.

“You’re getting angry.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Fuck you, and fuck meeting up.” He hangs up, and as soon as he does, the phone rings again. He answers after a few rings, because he’s not done yelling. “I’m not in the mood to be ridiculed. Do you want to go back to how things were before?”

“Christian,” Chief says in a measured tone. “You don’t take care of yourself. I’m saying *I* want to take care of *you*.”

This admission hangs between them. “Oh,” Christian whispers.

“Are you going to be free tomorrow?”

Christian thinks about the night at the bar, the way they fell together angrily, kissing to hurt themselves as much to cause pleasure. This would be . . . very different from that. He’d be in a vulnerable position. It could be disastrous. “Okay,” he mumbles, as if speaking quietly enough means he won’t catch himself saying it. 

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” 

They hang up. Christian exhales.

“Are you heading out again?” 

Christian starts. Bart just popped out of nowhere, carrying a crumpled paper full of dry paint bits. “What are you doing?” Christian asks.

“I’m going to use the dried remnants of my Splart to make a sculpture. Are you leaving soon? Because if so, I’d like to point out that we’re running low on supplies again.”

“I can get supplies, but I won’t be heading out until tomorrow.”

“Ah. Okay.” Bart passes by, carrying his supplies to a corner of the room. He has a box full of other tools waiting by the wall, from which he takes some crazy glue. Now, when did he get all of that?

Christian doesn’t have time to grumble. He needs to steady his nerves, which he plans to do by getting so drunk he can’t think until tomorrow rolls around. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. It sounds like something very ‘Christian’ to do. So maybe, when he forfeits all of his composure and dignity tomorrow, it won’t be as bad.


	6. the Stink Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope it fulfills all your expectations

By the time Christian arrives at the motel room, Chief’s already in the bathroom. Despite the low quality of the motel, the shower includes a tub bottom of a moderate size, and Chief is on his knees with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, swishing the tub water around and creating a froth of bubbles. A congregation of fancily-coloured bottles and other objects stand on the bathtub shelf. “What’s this?” Christian asks.

“Smith has all types of personal hygiene products, and he’s always gifting me de-stress body-buttery-bubble-gels and the like. Thought I’d finally put some to good use.” He stands up and shakes the sudsy water off of his hands, then wipes them on the back of his pants. “Are you ready?”

“This is fucking moronic,” Christian answers. 

“You need a bath,” Chief retorts. “You’re disgusting.”

“Go to hell.”

“Give it a try. It’ll be better than it sounds.”

Christian grumbles, but gives in. He starts to take off his jacket, but when Chief doesn’t do anything, he raises his eyes. “You mind?”

“Oh. Right.” Chief exits the bathroom and stands facing away, hands on his hips, pretending to be very interested in the window drapes. Only then does Christian keep undressing. It’s true, they’ve been sneaking around for a while, but neither of them have been naked in front of the other. There’s a kind of familiarity needed for that scenario that neither of them have garnered, and besides, Christian is . . . uncomfortable. With his body. Even now, as he unfurls from his outfit, he feels like a caterpillar that shouldn’t be emerging from its cocoon. His body is all scars and wounds, bad memories and a bad present. He tries not to look down. Taking a deep breath, he steps into the tub and sits down in the hot water. “I’m in,” he calls out the door, blushing when Chief returns.

Christian doesn’t know what he expects the cop to do. Maybe this is a weird, elaborate joke, and a punchline will follow at Christian’s expense. Maybe it’s some kind of trap. But Chief’s face isn’t cruel when he strides in. It’s determined, with a furrowed brow as he kneels down and picks from the many supplies he brought. He hands Christian a bottle that reads ‘honey-scented body wash’. “I assume you know what to do with this.” 

Christian starts washing his arms, and Chief squirts contents of another bottle onto a loofah and starts on his back. It’s weird, definitely, that this is happening, but it does feel nice. Chief lets Christian stay in control of what happens, but as long as the crook doesn’t object, he helps out. The bubbles are plentiful enough that Christian still has privacy, and as long as Christian doesn’t think about what’s happening, he’s mostly calm. 

Once they’ve dealt with getting Christian’s skin clean, Chief picks up a plastic measuring cup from among all the bottles. “Tilt your head back,” he orders, and scoops up a cup of water. Christian obeys, and Chief puts a hand at Christian’s hairline, then pours the water to soak all the hair. He works in shampoo until Christian’s head is a foamy mess, and rinses it with the same method as before. And, Jesus, it’s like Christian’s a kid again. He never thinks about his past if he can help it, but it’s been so long since he’s been cared for in this way. Since he’s had a pair of capable hands around him, and comfortable touching to keep him steady, and warmth and good smells and peace. Chief shampoos and conditions, and Christian can’t help but quip, “Do you do this with all the guys you know? You’re good at this, officer.”

Chief doesn’t make eye contact. “I’ve had to take care of more than myself from a young age,” he explains. “You learn a lot of skills that way.”

“I guess I understand. Though, I was the opposite. I had to look out for myself, so I only looked out for myself. If you’re smart, that’s the way you go about it. It’s easier that way.”

Chief doesn’t say anything to that. Christian thinks he’s proven something, somehow, but after one more rinse Chief goes to put the cup back Christian blurts out, “Wait. Just—do it one more time.”

If Chief thinks it’s weird, he doesn’t let on. Christian closes his eyes and lets the water pour over his scalp a last few times. Then it’s over. 

“Alright,” Chief says, and grabs a face cloth. “Let me just—“

“What are you doing,” Christian says, dodging Chief’s hand.

“Christian, your face.”

“What about my face? I can wash my own face.”

“From how you’ve looked every time I’ve seen you, I really believe you can’t. Hold still.” He manages to rub off the coke mustache, then Christian grabs the cloth and does the rest. 

“Happy now?”

Chief looks him over. “Yes, actually.”

Christian’s in a huff, but Chief leaves the room and gives him no choice but to get over it and towel off. Christian drains the tub, steps onto the bath mat, and dries himself. It’s only after he’s tied the towel around hi waist that he realizes he has nothing to put on. “Where the hell are my clothes?”

“Those are dirty. Put these on instead,” Chief says, handing over a folded pair of black pants and a matching shirt and jacket, all pretty similar to Christian’s own. However, they’re definitely nicer quality. “I picked them out yesterday. They should fit, as I tried them on, and coincidentally, we seem to have the same measurements.”

Christian looks up at Chief through damp hair. “Thanks,” he says, unsure if he means it. When he puts them on, though, the clothes fit well. 

“Are you changed?” Chief peeks around the door and comes in with a hair dryer. Christian doesn’t bother protesting when the cop starts combing Christian’s hair with his fingers, fluffing it up and drying it out. It’s done in no time.

Christian looks at his reflection. His new outfit is sleek and black like an oiled-up shadow, unlike the fraying, coke-dusted clothes he’s used to. His hair looks soft and fluffy, his face is clean, and, would you look at that? He’s not frowning or anything. If he met himself on the street, he’d think he was a prime mark. It’s uncomfortable.

Chief is standing in the reflection, too, right beside him. Despite being rolled-up, his sleeves are wet, and the early afternoon still finds him with five o’clock shadow. He’s tired. 

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Christian says. He looks Chief in the eyes through his reflection, and the cop rubs the bridge of his nose. 

“I guess not. Been spending a lot of time at the firing range. Hasn’t amounted to much.”

“You can’t shoot.”

“I did, though. Last night, I aimed for the target and pulled the trigger. But when the shot rang out, I—“

When Chief chokes up, Christian turns to him. The cop’s bowed his head, biting his lip, holding a hand over his eyes. “I broke,” he says, and it comes out with a voice crack. “Like glass on asphalt. Like a ceramic plate. I couldn’t breathe, and the only thing I could see was blood. Smith’s blood, red for the first time as it poured out of him and, god, I was so sure he was going to die. I was so sure I killed my boy.” A sob comes out, but he tries to inhale it, holding his breath so he won’t break out wailing. 

Christian doesn’t know what to do. There’s no apathetic way out of this, or no way that he wants to take. Chief’s shaking like a building ready to go down in flames. Christian has to do it; he reaches out for the other man.

He’s never been the one to comfort others. More often, people need comforting because of him. But he hugs Chief, and lets this usually-so-strong man break down in his arms. That’s the problem with being tough, isn’t it? Once you’re under pressure, if you can’t hold your shape, you shatter. Some days, the only way to get by is to be soft.

Chief reacts badly to the hug, seizing up like he’s trying to make a universe of himself. Slowly, though, he relaxes, until he’s sobbing into Christian’s neck, and Christian’s rocking them back and forth and trailing his fingers up and down Chief’s spine. 

Chief pulls away once he’s able to stop crying. “Ah, fuck,” he says, looking away and wiping his eyes. “This is embarrassing.”

“You say to the man you just gave a bubble bath. Come on.” Christian leads Chief out of the bathroom and lies him down on the bed. The curtains are already closed, with the only light nudging through the edges of the window pane. Christian gets Chief under the covers, after removing his pants because having those on is simply uncomfortable. He only hesitates slightly before kissing him on the forehead. “You’re going to rest here, and get some fucking sleep for once, okay? No thinking about guns, or Smith, or any stressful bullshit. What matters is what’s here, now. You’re going to be fine.” 

Christian’s halfway to the door when Chief calls out, “Wait.” He turns around, and Chief’s pushed himself into a seated position. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving, to give you peace and quiet. You need to rest.”

“Christian, I can’t rest. I’ve told you, I’m not sleeping, the only time I’ve been able to is,” he pauses, “when I was with you.”

Christian bites his cheek. “You know, being your calmest when sleeping next to a goddamn murderer is a good sign that you need help. See a therapist, for once.” 

He’s already walking back to the bed, removing his lovely new jacket and pants, climbing in next to the (physically and emotionally) exhausted cop. Chief clings to him instantly. Christian stokes his hair.

This is wrong, isn’t it? It has to be. Being here, feeling this way. He’s the Priest, for fuck’s sake, he’s supposed to be hard-hearted, ready to do whatever he needs to to help himself out. He’s been abandoned by the rest of the world, beyond hope; he shouldn’t have feelings for another person. But here he is. Feeling truly clean for the first time in years, with another man in his arms.

He shouldn’t have this. He doesn’t deserve this. But he wants it, god, he’d pray for it to last if he thought that would make a difference. Chief’s breathing has evened out, becoming a slow and rumbling snore. Christian feels is heart twinge, and in that moment comes a love so strong that it swallows him whole.   
\---


	7. Chapter 7

Smith knows Chief underestimates him. The older police officer thinks he’s being smooth, disappearing all the time, sneaking back into his apartment in the morning. He thinks Smith hasn’t detected it, but it would be impossible not to notice. Chief’s . . . softer, now. Letting Smith take charge more, acting friendlier with their coworkers. not being so harsh when interrogating suspects. It’s like he’s gone through a rock tumbler, as it’s the same Chief as before, but his corners don’t cut. He shines, albeit softly, when he thinks nobody’s looking.

Another thing that’s changed is Chief’s focus. Originally, he’d been directing all his brooding energy towards catching the Priest, but nowadays he lets Smith do most of the investigating, and takes on other cases to deal with in the meantime. Maybe the crook’s rap sheet was getting Chief down, as the older police officer always said there was no saving this type of low-life. Or, he’s stepped back to finally let Smith prove him wrong. 

Smith has no clue what brought these changes on, or why Chief is trying to keep his behaviour a secret. But that’s okay! Everyone’s allowed their privacy, and if Chief is happy, so is Smith. Chief will talk about it when he’s ready.

It’s the middle of a lazy shift, however, when the answer is dropped right into Smith’s lap. Rather, it’s delivered to the front desk.

Chief is in the middle of filing a report on another closed case, so Smith is busy chatting up the rest of the station. That’s when a delivery-woman comes in, gingerly carrying a bouquet of multi-coloured tulips. “Ooh,” Smith squeals, and bounds over to check them out. So lovely! He fawns over the myriad of colours as the woman reads off the attached card.

“Delivery for a ‘Chief’?” she says.

“I can bring them to him!” Smith takes the bouquet and rushes to Chief’s desk, way in the back. The older cop likes his privacy, peace, and quiet.

Smith bounds up, shouting, “Chief, Chief!” and all but shoves the bouquet forward. “Look what came for you!”

“For me?” he raises an eyebrow, giving a very incredulous noir-stare, but he accepts the gift. It’s a beautiful arrangement, really: the tissue paper around it is baby blue, and the cut stems drip beads of water. He cradles it like a baby, and wherever he touches it, the pastel colour becomes a soft kitten-gray. Chief reads the card and blinks a few times, and before Smith’s eyes, his lips curl into a lovely little smile. Subtle, like the edges of an unrolled poster. Smith bounces on his heels.

“Who’s it from? Do you know them?”

“Of course I know them, Smith, they’re sending me flowers.”

“But *how* do they know? Was it lady Henderson thanking you for rescuing her cat from that tree?”

“You did that,” Chief reminds him.

“You watched me in case I’d fall.”

“Listen.” Chief folds the card up and sobers his expression. “The flowers are from a person I’m seeing.”

Smith gasps. So *that’s* what’s going on. “Chief, you’re sweet on someone?”

Chief shrugs. 

“That’s amazing! You should have told me, I can be a perfect wingman. But still! You have to tell me everything about her.”

“I should get these flowers into a vase or something, first.” Chief tries to step around, but Smith blocks his path.

“No, no, no! There’s no changing the subject. What’s she like? What’s her favourite colour? How’d you two meet? What’s her *name*?”

Chief falters. “His name is—Ben.”

Smith’s head tilts like a puppy’s until his brain fits together this additional piece of information. Chief has a boyfriend? “Well, all the other questions still apply. Who is Ben? What’s he like?”

Chief rubs the bridge of his nose. “Look, he’s—“ he looks to the flowers, “Sweet. In his own way, I guess. He acts prickly, and he’s a grade A asshat, but I suppose that deep down—deep, deep down—he actually cares. He dresses in a lot of black. He’s more self-conscious than he lets on. I don’t know what his favourite colour is.” Chief rubs his neck. “Is that enough for you?”

“Do you love him?”

Chief states Smith down. The latter has a grin like a half moon covering his face, his eyes twinkling. “Don’t you have work to do?” Chief asks. “Team-building with dispatch, or something?”

“Oh, alright. You just enjoy your flowers, Mr. Lovebird!” Smith skips off to go bug someone else, and Chief sighs. He looks again at the card.

*To Chief,

Since you wanted to be all romantic and shit with the bath, I thought I’d return the favour. Take care on shift, okay?

XOXO, hearts and all that garbage,

Christian*

Sending flowers to work, drawing attention from all his coworkers, was the perfect act of passive aggression. Still, the bouquet is beautiful. Colourful, fragile; everything Chief isn’t. He finds a tall cup in the break room to put them in, and they take up the corner of his desk for the rest of the day. 

Later on, the grays head out in a patrol car, just for something to do. They don’t expect to get involved in anything. Instead, they cruise at a low speed, Smith driving while Chief rides shotgun. The drive is normal until the younger cop goes quiet for a second. He looks in the rear view mirror, swallows audibly, and glances at Chief. “So,” he says, “will I ever meet Ben?”

“What?” Chief snaps out of his head, where he ashamedly but occasionally goes during time on patrol. Smith adjusts his hands on the wheel and looks in the rear view mirror again. 

“Ben. Your boyfriend.”

Chief shrugs, like it could ever be a possibility. “Ben’s a pretty private guy,” he pretends, “he’s not the most comfortable around new people. So no, not for a while. If things even last that long,” he adds the last part and feels the perfect cover story slide into place. He can have a fake, shy boyfriend for a while, and break up with him before he has to prove Ben actually exists. It’s perfect.

Smith isn’t as willing to let the idea go. “Tell him there’s no need to be nervous! I don’t bite.” He grins toothily.

“I really don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Smith’s smile stutters and Chief feels bad shutting the kid down. They ride in silence for a few more beats, then Smith says quietly, “Chief?”

“Yes, Smith?”

“The fact that you didn’t tell me . . . is it because Ben is your boyfriend? I mean, did you think it would look bad, if you let people know,” he gulps, “that you were dating a man?” 

When a bomb is dropped, a ringing silence slices through the air. In the same way, Chief is too shocked to speak. Smith’s words rush out to fill the space.

“Because it doesn’t. I mean, it’s totally fine. And I was just worried, because if you thought it *wouldnt* be fine, then you thought *I* wouldn’t be fine with it, but I am, but you never told me, and we’re partners, and I’m just worried if I ever did anything to make you think you couldn’t tell me, because partners should trust each other, and I trust you—“

“*Smith*.” Chief shakes his head. “That has nothing to do with it. You know me, I just don’t talk about those things a lot. You had nothing to do with it. You’re golden, kid.”

Instantly, Smith’s grin revives, popping up shiny and excited like a coin from a magician’s hand. “Great! Because you know, I’d never want you to feel like you can’t tell me things. I tell you everything. That’s why we work so well together!”

“You can’t keep your mouth shut, Smith. There’s a difference,” Chief teases, but he smiles back.

“You know what I mean. Partners don’t keep secrets!”

Chief shifts in his seat, and thinks of Christian’s flowers. “No,” he says, “I suppose they don’t.”

The car radio crackles to life, dispatch’s voice strong and clear despite the static. “Attention, all active officers, a robbery is in progress at the downtown bank. The perpetrator is wearing a priest outfit and is under the influence. All units report in, as he is considered extremely volatile. Over.”

Chief’s heart breaks as the report comes in, calving like an iceberg. Smith’s grip on the wheel instantly tightens. “We have to get there first. We know the most about the case, so we’re the most likely to help.” He flicks their sirens on, pulls a u-turn, and they speed off in the direction of the bank.


	8. 8

In the morning, Christian’s having a good day. He dresses in his new clothes and doesn’t even flinch when he sees his reflection in the mirror. Chief has ruined him, is what it is; Christian is a dulled blade, now. But it feels good to be damaged, for once.

He wonders if there’s anything he can do in return for last night. Nothing mushy, as that’s not his style, but there has to be something he can portray with enough snark to pull off right. A gesture that can get on Chief’s nerves, in a good way. 

The idea of flowers comes almost immediately. They’re usually so sincere and sentimental, and therefore are perfect for his gift. In addition, their colour should make Chief happy. Christian takes off his priest collar for his trip out, deciding to do things the legal way for once, heads to a local florist’s. He picks the most eye-popping display he sees and pays the store to deliver it to the station. 

It’s already afternoon when he gets back to the warehouse. The sun is finally shining and the air smells clean. Christian is happy, and it’s a foreign flavour, but that only enhances the taste. He only feels slightly solemn when he goes to count his cash, to gather his “rent”—dues to the Oculus.

His Bible waits on his makeshift table, and he opens it up to reveal the compartment inside, stuffed with a fat roll of bills. However, upon taking the wedge of money out, he finds it to be smaller than when he last saw it. He frowns, flips through it, and scowls. Over half of it is missing. 

He wracks his brain for how this could happen, and spins around to look for Bart. The artist has given up on his paint-chip sculpture idea, and has gone to splattering paint on canvases again, this time in small quantities at high velocity. He’s throwing a cupped handful of periwinkle at a big canvas when Christian storms over. 

“Bart!” he barks, and Bart yelps, messing up his aim. The paint splatters all over the floor. Christian grabs the artist by the collar of his shirt and slams him up against the wall. “Where have you been getting all these art supplies?” he growls.

“Th-the art store?”

“With what money?”

Bart shakes like a hummingbird’s heart. “I—I’m sorry!”

“You’ve been stealing from me.”

“I’d been looking for something to, to eat, I only stumbled across the money by acci, accident, and I wanted to use it for, food. But I passed the storefront, and—“ he starts straining, “Christian, I can’t, can’t breathe!”

Christian murders Bart with his eyes for a few seconds. Imagines how much easier it would be to just let the artist’s life seep out, let him join the body count, and carry on solo again. Christian sighs and drops his grip, letting Bart collapse to the floor. 

“I needed that money,” he says. “I’m in trouble without it, which means you’re fucked by association.”

“I’m sorry! I’m cooped up here all day, nothing to do, I just wanted to make art! I didn’t realize it was so much.”

God, now he’s whimpering. “Get up,” Christian commands. “And get ready to go, because we’re heading out. I just need to deal with some ‘priestly business’, first.”

Christian returns to his nook and gets out all of the coke he has on hand. He’s been laying low crime-wise since his thing with Chief started, and if he’s getting back in the swing of things, he’s going to need a lot of ‘powdered courage’ to help him get by.   
\---  
By the time they get to the bank, Christian’s high has him reeling. He did enough coke to cause a heart attack, and now he’s on a level of violent energy normally reserved for a vengeful deity. He explodes through the front doors, Bart in tow because he knows how panicked the artist gets during criminal activity. He wants Bart to suffer. 

The thing about cocaine is that it gives you superpowers. Christian’s time-hopping, entering the bank one second, then seemingly blinking into place in front of a register, jabbing a gun at an employee’s forehead. “Hand the money over,” he’s in the middle of saying to another worker, who’s standing by like she’s confronted Medusa. Around them, many desks are already upended, papers strewn everywhere. A few other people huddle against the wall.

“I’m terribly sorry about this,” Bart says from behind him. “Just stay calm, and he won’t do anything too bad.”

“You have no say in what the fuck I do,” Christian snarls. Another power is his invincibility. He doesn’t have to give a fuck, because on enough of the drug he’s inhuman. His heart beats like a barrage of lightning and his whole body vibrates, and fuck, being evil is brilliant. Why hasn’t he done this in so long? He remembers that he’d been laying low for Chief, and he cackles aloud at his own stupidity. Chief is nothing compared to *this*, this power, this capability. Christian doesn’t need anyone in this state, he doesn’t even long for the God who abandoned him, because he’s his own God now. 

Time skips again, and he’s got Bart holding a duffel bag as the employee fills it with bills, and Christian already has another set of lines cut on a desk. He rails, feels his nose start to bleed, and wipes it with his sleeve. That’s when he hears the sirens.

“Fuck!” He spins around. “Who the fuck called the fucking cops?”

The employee he’d held his gun at is sitting at her desk still. Christian wipes his nose again and stalks over, shoving her out of the way. Feeling under the table reveals a secret button, which of course must have been used to alert authorities. How could he have forgotten about that?

The sirens have come close already. Christian sees a car screech into the parking lot, followed closely by another, and he flinches at the sight. Too many cops, too soon; he should have paid more attention. How will he escape now? If he’s caught Oculus might get him out again, but he hasn’t paid them yet and they’ve been firm on what they need. They’ll abandon him. Worse, they’ll turn on him. And he can’t go to jail. With a rap sheet like his, if he doesn’t get the death penalty, then God’s on his side. Isn’t that a joke?

Paranoia, cocaine’s version of a spidey sense, kicks in. They must have him surrounded. Surrounded, ready for him to surrender, and they’re already figuring out how to take him in. Maybe they’re trying to contact the employees through some other bank security fuckery right this second. His gaze latches on to the employee he shoved away. She’s neat and professional-looking and completely terrified. He points his gun at her. 

“You’re ruining this!” He screams. “This is all your fault!”

“Christian, don’t—“

“*Don’t* tell me what to *do*, Bart.” 

“This is the RDPD,” comes a crackly megaphone voice. “Come out with your hands up.”

“Shut up, shut up!” Christian’s head is thrumming. He wipes his nose with his sleeve. “I need to think. Nobody move!”

The bank doors burst open. Christian grabs the employee and drags her close. She screams. He presses the barrel of his gun hard into her temple. 

“—face to face is the only way to reach him!” a cop is saying to his partner as two of them rush into the bank. It’s a high, perky voice, and Christian would recognize it anywhere. His jaw clenches.

Smith stands in the middle of the room, frozen mid-stride once he and Christian make eye contact. And, only a few steps behind him, there’s Chief. Stopped dead, looking so defeated—and disappointed.   
\---  
The grays pull into the bank parking lot first, and Smith’s out of the vehicle before Chief understands what the plan is. “You’re heading in?” Chief exclaims. He runs after Smith, trying to stop him, but it’s like the kid wants to get shot. “We have to try to reason with him,” Smith shouts over his shoulder. Chief and Smith enter the bank, and Chief’s heart is screaming inside of its ribcage prison.

“Talking face to face is the only way to reach him!” 

A woman screams. Chief freezes in the middle of the room. Smith stops, too, and looks forward again. 

The scene is chaotic. Civilians are trying to squeeze themselves into the wall, Bart’s cowering and clutching a bag of money, and furniture is thrown about and broken. Christian stands at the centrepoint of all of it, looking like a religious figure in a renaissance painting. His once-nice clothes are stained with coke and blood, a white smear hovers like a fog on his upper lip, and blood streams out of his nostril and over his lips. In the moment, everything’s so quiet, Chief can hear the *tap, tap* of drops of it falling off Christian’s chin, hitting the floor. The criminal’s hair is a mess, his pupils are black holes, and he has a woman quaking in his arms. 

“Christian!” Smith shouts, like he’s talking to a deaf person. “Stay. Calm!”

“How the fuck do you know my name,” he seethes. 

“My partner, Chief, has done investigating.” 

Chief and Christian stare each other down. The tension couldn’t be cut with a knife; it would take a nuclear bomb for it to dent. 

“I know you’re stressed, but you have to listen to me,” Smith continues. “This isn’t the way to do things. Everyone here will be better off if we all take a step back, now, and try to calm down.”

“You don’t understand,” Christian replies, but he’s still looking at Chief. “I need to do this.”

“No, you don’t. We can help you! If you give yourself over, we can get this all sorted out. Murder is messy! And wrong!”

“Any means to an end,” he all but whispers. Those dialated pupils, so out of it, bounce around the room. He eyes Smith for a moment, then his jaw clenches. “You’re right,” he says, more loudly. His voice is uncharacteristically high. “Murder is messy. Causes quite the disturbance, doesn’t it?” 

Chief knows a decision was just made but he doesn’t know what for. “Christian,” he says testily, but the criminal is already moving his gun, aiming, pulling the trigger—


	9. Chapter 9

The bullet goes in under the bank employee’s chin and exits the top of her face. Blood sprays up, her body deflates, and the violence is so unexpected it renders everyone in the room statues. Murder is a perfect time-stopper.

Christian is the only one unaffected. As soon as he drops the body, he feels a part of him collapse with it, but he ignores it in favour of grabbing the duffel from Bart and taking off running.

Out of the building he goes, vaulting over the hood of a police cruiser, disappearing into an alleyway. His body is on autopilot because his mind is still back there, repeating his actions. He can’t believe he’s able to move, that his emotions aren’t shutting him down like an overworked machine, but he understands the need to keep moving. If what’s behind him catches up, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. God, he hasn’t felt this way after killing someone since—

Since the first time. 

It was having Chief watch that did it. Having that man, who’s done so much for him, witness the kind of character Christian truly is—it makes shame burn behind Christian’s ears. And now he has to go, go as fast as he can, escape this, escape Chief. He can hear Chief   
running after him, wordless and gaining with every step. As the cop has always said, his job comes first, and now Christian has to escape the man he loves.

Christian doesn’t take care of himself; Chief is more fit, and faster, and will catch up eventually. If Christian wants to get away, he has to rely on trickery instead of speed. He needs to disappear. He starts taking turns at every corner, running across intersections, trying to hide his trail. He dips in and out of stores and around people until he’s certain nobody can find him, until he’s lost even to himself. Even then he keeps going, because there’s more to run away from than the law. 

He killed a woman. An innocent woman. For the first time since *that* first time, the reality of his actions really hit him. His legs are aching, his throat is on fire, his chest heaves with every breath, but if he stops, the guilt will catch up with him. So he speeds up and pushes himself forward for as long as he can. He forces himself onwards with every leaping step, forces his body to outpace his conscience until suddenly he can’t.

It’s like a switch is struck. In an instant his legs just stop; he falls onto the pavement and skids his skin into the ground. He lies there for a moment, his breathing shaky. Blood patters onto the ground and he remembers that his nose is still bleeding. The blood keeps coming, and looking behind himself, he finds he’s left a blood trail the whole time. It’s small, but someone like Chief has had enough sleuthing experience to follow it. 

Christian laughs at his situation. It comes out as a sharp bark, and a hacking of saliva onto the ground. As he does this, speak of the devil, Chief sprints into view. The two of them lock eyes. Chief is panting, fists clenched. 

Christian takes off again.

He skids onto an old, empty street. There’s an alley coming up, between buildings, and if he   
turns down it last-minute, Chief could be caught off guard. He’d race past it, giving Christian time to run out of view, or to hide. It could be Christian’s salvation. Whether or not it works, it’s currently his only hope. 

He pushes himself, and although his entire body burns, he’s used to hellish heat. He gets to the alley and whips around the corner, looks back and sees Chief sprint ahead and miss the entrance completely. Christian can keep going, and disappear for real this time, escape who he is. He’s free and he’s safe—

and he thinks this until he runs straight into a chain-link fence.   
The metal jangles, bending with his body weight, then pushes back, flinging him onto the   
pavement. His head cracks hard against the ground. He sees stars. 

He can barely breathe, let alone get up. And Chief’s steps are coming back, fast. 

Maybe running away from everything isn’t as easy as he thought.   
\---  
Chief’s gasping when he enters the alleyway. Christian’s sprawled on the ground, duffel beside him, so spent that it makes Chief pity him for an instant and that only makes Chief’s rage worse.

“You killed a woman as a distraction,” Chief shouts. His chest is heaving like a tumultuous sea but he’s not trying to save his breath, he needs to get his words out more than he needs to be calm.

“You killed her to rob a bank. To make money. And all this time I thought—“ he swallows. “I didn’t think you were different. But I thought you were getting better. I thought there was hope to get better. And now look what you did.”

Christian’s breathing kicks back in, and he gasps. The way he stands up is like a stutter, and as he presses himself up against the chain link, he pulls at his hair with one hand. “Chief,” he exhales, “I—I needed to.”

“Like fuck you did, Christian. What are you planning to use that money for? Drugs? Alcohol? God knows you don’t care about anything else.”

Christian fervently shakes his head. “You don’t understand.” 

Chief grits his teeth. “You’re right.” And he pulls out his gun, flicking off safety and aiming at the criminal scum before him.

“You’re not going to—you can’t shoot.”

“You proved me wrong, Christian. I promised that, if it was necessary, I’d have no problem doing the right thing. Really, I’m wracking my brain right now for reasons not to.” Chief’s voice cracks. “I don’t think I have any left.”

Silence stands between them. Christian grimaces, then his whole body relaxes as he seems to give in to something. Eventually, he spits out a single word. 

“Oculus.”

“What?”

“Oculus. The red eye. I need the money because if I don’t pay them, the deal’s off. They won’t make me forget, won’t *let me* forget. You don’t understand that all of this, it’s the means to an end. I just want, all I’ve ever wanted, is to forget. What I’ve done. Who I am.” He looks up at Chief like a scared child. His grip of the fence behind him turns his hands dove-white. “You—you were helping me. Do that, forget the truth, for a while,” he admits, to himself as much to the cop. “But it’s not working. It just makes me remember, more than ever, that what I do is wrong. And I know that. And I can’t live with it.”

Christian’s shaking like a lie under scrutiny. He stares Chief dead in the face with eyes welling with tears. “I’ve tried to escape who I am by forgetting, but it’s only making things worse. So maybe,” he inhales, “it’s better to end it all.”

He shoves himself off of the fence. Chief moves to take a step back, but Christian shakes his head. “It’s for the best, Chief,” he says, spreading out his arms, trying to show there’s no trick. “My sins have caught up with me. There’s no other option, anymore.

“You have to shoot.”


	10. Chapter 10

Bart faints once the gun goes off, Christian bolts with Chief hot on his heels, and Smith is left alone with the aftermath of the confrontation. The young cop hardly breathes, ears still ringing with the sound of the gunshot, eyes welling up like a wound spilling blood. 

He’s never witnessed a murder before. He’s been at crime scenes, he’s caught criminals, but he’s never seen the act up close. He’s never known what it’s like to see a person turn past-tense, never had to feel his own breathing stop when their body went limp. He forces himself to walk over, to really look at the woman on the ground, because he can’t ever forget this.

Two other cops rush into the building. He doesn’t turn to see who they are; he lets them deal with the civilians as he kneels down by the corpse. 

His hands shake but he rolls her onto her back. Her body’s still warm, her clothes nice and unwrinkled and colour-coordinated where they aren’t blood soaked. Her face—he gags and turns away, then wills himself to look back to the body. He finds a name tag on the right side of her cardigan. 

Her name was Ashmeen. The name tag was shiny and new, so she must not have worked here long. She’s young. She probably had career aspirations here. 

Smith shakes his head. It wouldn’t matter; she could have been here for years, could have hated her job, could have been a lazy employee and about to be fired. She didn’t need to be a model personality to not deserve what happened. Murder is murder, no matter who the victim is. There’s still a life being torn out of someone’s grasp, there’s still a gap left in the world that won’t grow back. 

After a long time of staring, Smith stands up. The blood is flowing, and has almost made it to his shoes. He steps back before it can reach him, but despite his clean physical appearance, he feels stained by what just happened. 

He wants to turn around and walk out of the bank, into the fresh air, and away. From all of it. Moreso, however, he wants to fix his mistake. 

Christian threw his gun away once he committed his sin. It’s on the floor, resting by an upturned chair, and Smith glances around to find that everyone else has left the building or is occupied doing their own damage control. He’s the only one who noticed it.

Smith isn’t allowed to carry, but hey, people aren’t allowed to kill other people, and look how today’s gone so far. He walks over to the weapon and picks it up. He moves his hand up and down, testing its weight, and decides that it feels good. It won’t be missed as evidence; the rest of the squad always seems to forget about the Priest, anyway. He slides it into his empty holster.

Fuck being the good cop. He doesn’t want to be the hopeful one anymore. He wants to be the one to get results.   
\---  
Chief doesn’t know what to do.

“Come on!” Christian tells at him, tears crowding his eyes. “It’s the only way for us to get out of this. One of us has to die, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be you. You have so much good to do, still, Chief.”

Chief lowers his gun. “Christian, I—“

“I said *do it*.” The criminal’s crying fully now, his voice bitter. “You coward! Don’t you understand that I want out? So do it!”

Chief shakes his head. Slowly at first, then with more and more force. “I can’t. Not like this.”

Christian wails, “Why not?”

“Because this is the first time I’ve hear you say you’re sorry for what you’ve done.”

Christian can’t speak, and instead falls to his knees. Chief makes sure his gun‘s stowed with the safety on before he goes to the criminal, sitting on the ground and holding Christian as his body convulses with ugly sobs. They stay that way for a long time. 

Eventually, the drug use and exhaustion catches up to Christian, and he passes out in Chief’s arms. Chief sighs, then pulls out his phone. First he calls Smith, saying that Christian has once again evaded his grasp. Then he calls a taxi.

He picks Christian up when the cab arrives, and maneuvers himself and the criminal’s unconscious body into the backseat. The cab driver stares at them with wide eyes through the rear view mirror. Chief realizes there’s a lot of blood on the both of them. 

“It’s a long story,” he says, flashing his police badge so the driver doesn’t try to call the cops himself. “Just drive, please.”

The taxi takes them to Chief’s apartment complex. It’s a hassle, but Chief carries Christian bridal-style into the building, all the way to the apartment door. Thank god for him not running into any neighbours on the way. He has to prop Christian against the wall to fumble for his keys, but eventually they make it inside. 

Chief sets Christian down on his bed, trying to make him as comfortable as possible. He takes off Christian’s jacket and pants, and uses a face cloth to clean up as much blood and coke as possible. Christian uncharacteristically sleeps through all of it, and if not for the rise and fall of his chest, Chief would be worried. He pulls the covers over Christian and steps back. The criminal looks as comfortable as Chief can make him. With nothing else to do, Chief heads off to clean himself. 

He showers, eats some leftovers for dinner, and decides to sleep on his couch to give Christian time alone. He doesn’t want to overwhelm the crook. Chief thinks it will take some time to fall asleep, but in reality he’s able to relax relatively easily. Christian’s safe and sound, in Chief’s care, and for now, that’s all that matters.   
\---  
Smith is at the bank, having just picked up Christian’s gun, when Chief calls his cell, “I lost Christian,” he says. “I’d come back to help with the aftermath, but—“

“I get it.” Smith’s voice is controlled, even. “It can be hard coming back to it. It’s mostly procedural stuff now, anyway, so I’ll be fine if you end your shift here. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay. . . . You’re doing good, kid.” With that, Chief hangs up. That leaves Smith and the other officers cleaning up the mess left over. The bank is closed down, the civilians receive treatment for shock, and Bartholomew is taken into the station for questioning. Smith can’t handle confronting the ex-hostage now, however; he’s too busy having his reality break. He could swear he’s gone back home, because everything’s lost colour, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. He ends up at the firing range, practicing with his new piece. 

The targets are clear, black shadows. It would only take a bit of paint, some white smudges to make a priestly collar and stained upper lip, and Bart can picture it clearly in his mind. He takes the gun off safety. 

*Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.*

Two in the head, two in the neck, two in the body. They’re all pulling a bit to the right, but that’s okay. Smith’s never seen use for it, but when he learned to shoot at the academy, he was actually a pro, and having one eye only messes him up a little. Yes, the firing is easy. On an emotional level he’ll never understand, but physically, he gets how Christian does it. Guns make it so much quicker.

At this point, Smith’s empty eye socket decides to start aching again. He holds a hand to the side of his head, but imagines how much worse the pain would be if the injury he’d sustained from Chief had been fatal. He wouldn’t have had time to feel pain, really. . . . 

Neutralizing a threat before a threat neutralizes you. Keeping other innocents from being hurt in the future, and keeping the criminal’s death from being drawn out. There’s more than one definition to the word kindness, and Smith realizes that he doesn’t have to give up being the good cop in order to do what’s necessary. He just needs to make sure he’s ready to carry it out the right way.

He reloads, fires a last shot. It hits dead centre.


	11. Chapter 11

Christian aches. This is normal, when he first wakes up and throughout the rest of the day, but this morning is especially bad. His head feels swampy and his eyes are swollen from . . . crying? It takes him a moment to remember how things were when he passed out. Then, it takes him another moment to realize he has no clue where the hell he is. 

From his memories, he’d have expected to wake up still in that alley, left to dust himself off and find a new place to stay. Instead, he’s in a bed. The mattress is firm but the blankets are warm, and if he wasn’t so anxious to figure out where he was, he would have loved to stay enveloped in the sheets. Instead, he stumbles to his feet. 

It’s definitely not a place he’s been before. It’s barely decorated, but it’s clean, and calm. The thought balloons into his mind of where he could be, but he pops the idea immediately. There’s no way Chief would bring him *home*. 

He peeks out of the ajar bedroom door. The cop is snoring on the couch. Christian feels his heart ricochet. He it totally in Chief’s home. 

He freezes for a moment, like this realization should come with blaring sirens or the sky breaking open, reality itself breaking because this isn’t right. He doesn’t belong in the comfortable spaces, the rooms with bright lights and friendly conversation. His first impulse is to leave as soon as possible. 

Leaving the apartment requires leaving Chief, however. And Christian doesn’t want to do that. So, like any good crook, Christian’s second impulse is to sneak around.

He never imagined what Chief’s place might look like, but this fits like a tailored suit. Despite living in a world of colour, Chief populates his living space with blacks and whites and sleek silvers. It looks good.

Christian steps softly over the hardwood as he takes in the minimalist living room, then the kitchen-dining area. There are notes from Smith magneted to the fridge, reminding the reader to smile and have a healthy breakfast and look forward to the day. A bottle of whiskey is pushed to the back of the counter and half of the dishes in the sink are drinking glasses. Everything smells a bit alcohol-soaked, and nicotine-touched, and freshly-printed. Like Chief. 

Christian looks again to the sleeping cop, and figures he should try to repay Chief somehow. He could be all domestic and shit, make breakfast maybe? But right now Christian’s filthy, not to mention pantsless, so he figures he should try to clean himself up, first. 

He strips in the bathroom and takes a quick, cold shower, making sure to get his face clean of coke and blood. He even washes his hair, although it’s nothing like last time; Chief only has the basic shampoo and conditioner, no sweet smells to go with. Christian finishes and towels off to realize he has nothing to change into. Well, he and Chief are the same size, right? Would Chief mind if Christian took something to wear, just for now?

He looks in Chief’s closet and finds a wardrobe out of a dystopia. Nothing but black pants and white button-ups, row after row, stripes like a barcode. He guesses it makes sense, considering he’s never seen Chief in anything else, but in such a high concentration the clothes are overwhelming. 

Nonetheless, he pulls on a pair of pants and buttons up a shirt, leaving the bottom untucked and the top button undone. He returns to the bathroom to check himself out, and finds that if he pushes his hair back, he looks a bit like Chief. He gives his reflection a noir-cop smoulder or two, then realizes he’s being fucking stupid. Then it’s time to peruse the kitchen. 

Christian barely eats, so he honestly can’t remember the last time he’s cooked a real meal. He certainly hasn’t done it for another person before, and as he realizes the trial he’s up against, he puffs his cheeks out. He’s outrun he cops and conspired with menacing agencies, but brunch might be out of his abilities. 

Before he can decide how fucked he is, however, he needs to know what he’s working with. Scoping out the fridge and pantry leaves him with some skim milk, a half-carton of eggs, white bread, cheddar cheese, old-man bran cereal, pancake mix, and chocolate chips. He can handle scrambled eggs and pancakes, right? Yeah, yeah, he can do this. He heats up two separate frying pans while he reads the back of the mix box, then gets to work whisking.

Trying to break eggs leaves him with an eggshell-filled slop four times in a row, but after using up nearly every egg in the carton, he’s left with enough mostly-shell-free eggs to make what he needs. Some go into the pancake bowl, and the others he plans to scramble. He just needs to figure out how to do that, first. 

“Scrambled eggs,” he mutters to himself, “they’re self-describing. You just need to scramble the eggs and cook them, right? And I can shred cheese into them, be fancy and shit.” He attempts this, and only realizes after he pours the eggs into a pan that he needed to grease the pan, first. “Shi-i-i-it,” he says, pouring as much back into the bowl as he can, then scraping the remnants off with a spatula. Next try, he melts a small iceberg of butter in the pan first, and it seems to work better. 

Onto the pancakes. Again, cakes in a pan, he figures he should be able to handle this. He wants to add chocolate chips, like he heard of but never got to experience as a kid, but he doesn’t know how much to add. He ends up pouring in so many that the ratio is half chocolate, half batter. When he pours his concoction into the pan, he does enough at once to create a pancake the size of a dinner plate. Working back and forth on the pancakes and the eggs, he ends up with a fair amount of pancakes burnt on one side, or still gooey in the middle, and every time he tries to flip something it goes haywire. In the end, he wants to take out a personal vendetta against Aunt Jemima, but he’s done it. He’s made food. 

There are microwaveable sausages in the freezer, and those are more his style. He finishes them up in no time and puts the rest of his energy into setting Chief’s two-person table, setting plates across from each other and supplying cutlery, making sure everything is arranged parallel and opposing. He hasn’t had the luxury of caring about these little details before. 

A groan comes from the living room. Christian turns around just in time to see Chief push up off the couch, rub the sleep out of his eyes, and see Christian.

“Good morning,” he says, voice inflicting up, and Christian thinks, *Shit. He’s surprised to see me. I’m not supposed to still be here.* But then Chief adds, “Looking spiffy,” and Christian remember’s he took the other man’s clothes. 

“Oh, right. I thought you’d prefer me in these compared to what I wore last night.”

“You look nice,” Chief agrees, and then he notices the table. “You cook?”

“I did cook, technically.” Christian scratches the back of his head. “I don’t know if it worked out.” But Chief’s already moving to sit down, and Christian decides the only thing to do is join him.

There are definitely problems with the meal. Christian sees it now, through Chief’s eyes, and he wants to slap himself. He should never have tried to act caring. He’s a con-man, sure, but he’s too far removed from normal society to ever successfully portray a domestic scene. He’s scrapped together a two-bit sham, and his attempt only highlights how far away he is from the reality. He wants to flip over he table and leave right now.

He watches Chief with a clenched jaw. The cop, however, doesn’t hesitate to fill his plate, and is already pouring a thick ribbon of syrup over his meal. He has to be joking, right? Patronizing him, at least. Christian decides there’s nothing else to do but follow suit.

To him, of course, the food seems good. His empty stomach fills with real food for once, receiving things like protein and vitamins, and his body’s probably thinking it’s in heaven. The meal is silent because both men are too busy eating, and by the end of it, all of what Christian prepared is gone. Chief stares at Christian and his mouth twitches into a smile.

“What?” Christian asks. “What, do I have something on my face?”

“No, I was only thinking . . . this is exactly the kind of thing Smith would do.”

Christian blinks down at the remnants of their brunch. “Oh.”

“It’s funny, thinking you two would actually get along well. In a different life, I suppose.” Chief ruminates on this for a moment before pushing to his feet. “I should start the dishes.”

“Hey! No,” Christian gets up, too. “I made the mess, I should clean it up.” Chief’s already dealt with more of Christian’s slip ups than he should be willing to take. 

“Alright then, you wash and I’ll dry. I know where everything goes, anyway.”

So that’s what they end up doing, working in a silence that gradually increases in discomfort. Christian still feels like an imposter. They’re both trying to ignore yesterday.

“Chief?” he finally asks, while focusing on his hands in the sudsy water. “What the fuck are we going to do?”

The cop stands still, plate and towel in hand. He sets the dish down on the counter. “I’m going to keep doing my job. Showing up to work, handling crooks.”

“Well that’s fine and fucking dandy, officer, but I was asking, what are *we* going to do? What’s going to happen to,” he gestures between them, “this?”

Chief inhales, taps his fingers on the counter. “How serious were you about what you said yesterday? About only doing these things to try to escape?”

Christian is quiet. “More serious than anything.”

“I want to help you, Christian. If you let me. I don’t know what we can do, but there has to be some route to take, through witness protection maybe. If you have information you can give to the squadron, it could offset your record. I just need to explore the options first. For now, you just need to lay low. Stay in close contact with me, to ensure your security.” He clears his throat. “Stay here, even.”

Christian flicks bubbles from his hands and rubs them together, wiping off water. He internally wills his voice to sound calm, not an awful hopeful mess when he replies, “You’d be okay with that?”

“Christian. I want you with me. I want this.”

“Even after I’ve killed in front of you.”

Chief’s shoulders sag. It’s true, a corpse is not the type of thing you can swipe aside. Chief runs a hand through his hair and steps in close to Christian, carefully resting his arms around the other man’s waist. “I can help you get better. There’s a whole new school of thought around crime now, focusing on criminal rehabilitation and reintegration, on healing wounds on both sides of the action. Just think of Smith, how he acts. Eventually, if I break the news to him, he’ll be on your side.” He rests their foreheads together. “This is salvageable.”

Christian closes his eyes, letting himself soak in the moment. He and Chief rock back and forth together, almost a dance, and he imagines what this could look like as his new normal. 

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.” And they just hold each other for a while. 

“I got your flowers, you know,” Chief eventually says, and Christian can feel his voice box vibrate. “Smith delivered them while asking all sorts of questions, and I panicked, and told him I have a boyfriend. He was excited. He wanted to meet you.” 

Meet Christian. Chief’s boyfriend. Yeah, that sounds like that could be his normal. That’s definitely something he could live with. 

“One thing though,” Chief adds.

“Yeah?”

“If you bring coke under my roof, I’m going to kill you.”

Well. Christian should have known this relationship wouldn’t be without its difficulties.


	12. Chapter 12

Bart drives the officers crazy. It’s not that he’s uncooperative, because as soon as he came to at the station he was hugging the officers and stuttering about salvation; he tried his best to answer every question they threw at him. However, for someone who spent months with a known murderer and lived to tell of it, he sure has no clue about most of said murderer’s plans. 

“I don’t know who he was working with, only that he owed people money . . . no, he didn’t say anything about other contacts . . . I don’t think he would go back to our hideout . . . no, I don’t know where else he would be.” It was exhausting on both ends. 

“There’s *nothing* helpful you could tell us?” Smith whines. He’s the one in charge of the case, as the rest of the officers have continued to forget about Christian. Chief would normally be helping, but he’s taking a personal day for . . . Chief reasons. 

“I mean, I caught bits of his phone conversations,” Bart offers, hands out like he’s trying to show this is all he has. “He talked about meeting at a motel a lot of the time? Actually, I think most recently I heard him planning something to do with meeting up with a ‘Chief’?”

“Chief is my police partner.”

“Oh. So I guess I misheard. Maybe it was a . . . chef.”

Smith sighed and put his head in his hands. This was leading nowhere.   
\---  
Christian’s tried going sober before.Obviously, it hasn’t worked. But now there’s real incentive, something to look forward to besides the wavering hope that getting clean might make him better. Chief is there to greet Christian every morning upon awakening. There’s talk of replacement habits and coping mechanisms, real tools to change the way Christian treats himself. It sounds cheesy, and in any other context Christian would scoff and head off to do some lines out of spite, but Chief is excited about this. Not in an obvious way; the man would never let his voice jump, never bounce on the balls of his feet, but he spends his spare time doing research, trying to put together a DIY criminal rehab program. And that includes, you know, actual drug rehab. 

The support doesn’t mean it’s easy. Christian knows the withdrawal causes paranoia, but he can’t help wondering how safe he is, here. Chief’s gone all day for work and Christian wastes the hours peering through the window blinds to the streets below, starting at any sudden noise, wondering if the apartment’s under surveillance. He doesn’t know if he’s worried more about Oculus or the cops, or if maybe their ideas have melded together in his brain as one bad entity, trying to seek him out, wanting justice and vengeance for who he is. Who he doesn’t want to be. 

He feels like a pet left at home, waiting for his owner, and this makes him bitter. He retires to the bedroom and hides under the covers, hoping he can force sleep to come, just for a respite from the current purgatory of consciousness. When Chief comes home it’s only a reminder of the freedoms Christian doesn’t have. Sometimes the criminal refuses to be in the same room as the cop, out of the need to punish someone for causing his anguish. Chief lets Christian stay far away. 

It’s not all bad, however. The symptoms come and go, and when Christian feels better, and Chief is there, they actually have a good time. They can’t head out, as Christian is still wanted, but they watch old TV and eat more order-in food. A week and a half or so into this new arrangement, Chief even has an idea to try and make his boyfriend feel better. Instead of riding home with Smith, Chief tells the kid he has work to catch up on, then heads out and picks up supplies. He calls Christian while taking a taxi home, “Can you stay in the bedroom for a while?” 

“What? Why?”

“I need time to set up, and you can’t leave the apartment. I’ll be home soon, and I’ll let you know when you can come out, okay?”

Christian’s confused, but lets Chief has his way. He closes the door and waits in the bedroom, hearing the front door open and Chief walk in. The cop sets something down, and then there’s the sound of . . . furniture moving? Yeah, something definitely moves, and then plates clatter and Chief starts playing soft music from the speakers. An instrumental with violins. 

“What the fuck are you doing out there?” Christian calls. No response. Soon enough, though, Chief opens the door.

“Care to join me for date night?” he asks. He’s wearing a bow tie and dress jacket, and has even shaved the stubble off his face. Christian can’t help but reach out to hold the cop’s cheek, then he looks past his boyfriend, to what’s been done to the apartment. 

All of the lights are off and windows drawn, the light produced instead by various candles set alight around the room. The table has been pulled to the middle of the room, draped over with a white tablecloth, and set up with a fancy-looking meal: vegetables and stuffed chicken breast and french bread on real plates, instead of the usual takeout styrofoam boxes. Chief is standing at attention beside Christian, stoic and confident and professional-like, which means he’s secretly nervous. 

“You were complaining about not being able to leave to go anywhere, and I realized we’ve never been on a real date, to somewhere fancy.” He coughs into his hand. “I know it’s not your scene, but I thought since it’s not really a restaurant, it would be okay. Just something with a little ambiance, different from what the place normally looks like.”

Christian looks down at himself. Chief picked him up more clothes, so he’s dressed in black again, actually wearing his jacket from the night of the bank incident. “I’m underdressed,” he says. 

“You look great,” Chief assures him. “Come on. Our table awaits.”

Christian shrugs and lets Chief lead him to the table. The cop stops before sitting down. “Almost forgot,” he says, and heads to the kitchen, returning with a wine bottle and glasses. He pours them both a drink, and Christian swirls the liquid around. 

“Feels like a celebration,” he says.

“It can be one,” Chief replies, eyebrows raised.

“Of what?”

“Of sorting shit out,” he offers. “Of getting clean. Of, well, dating—do we have an anniversary date? We met around this time, months ago.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Christian says, and tilts the glass back. A symptom of withdrawal is the inability to feel pleasure, but he must have the majority of the drug out of his system, because this feels pretty good, actually. The dinner goes amazingly. The food Chief picked up is delicious, the conversation flows like water downhill, and by the end of it, Christian’s tingling with a happiness he didn’t know he could feel. He and Chief round the room, blowing out candles. Once the last one is extinguished, leaving the room moonlight-blue and smokey, Chief slides his arms around Christian from behind.

“Oh, officer,” Christian croons, smirking. “Acting a little presumptuous, aren’t we? Technically, this is the first date, after all.”

Chief hums into Christian’s neck. “Yes, and we both know you have a reputation to protect.”

“Exactly. Can’t have the neighbourhood talking.”

Chief slips around Christian and presses him against the wall, gently, like a drying flower. He kisses marks along Christian’s jawline as if playing connect-the-dots. Christian unbuttons Chief’s shirt. 

And that’s the position they’re in when Smith bursts through the door, flipping on all the lights, exclaiming, “Chief! I think I’ve cracked it! I think I know where Christian is—!”


	13. Chapter 13

It’s quiet like the aftermath of a cruel joke. Then all three of them react.

First: Chief shoves himself away from Christian, pulling the front of his shirt together, panic making him fumble too much to do up the buttons. He wonders how the hell he’s going to explain this.

Second: Christian balls his hands into fists. He’s willing to threaten this kid if he has to, do anything to protect Chief’s reputation. 

Third: Smith’s eyes are wide-lensed cameras. He takes in the two men’s disheveled clothes, the romantic leftovers behind them, the shock on both their faces. He sees that Christian’s wearing a new, clean outfit. He can’t begin to comprehend, but he reacts to the one thing he’s certain of. The Priest is right in front of him.

Smith draws his gun.

“Jesus!” Christian’s hands instantly go up, showing surrender. Chief steps towards Smith, but upon moving, he finds the barrel pointed at him instead.

“Don’t move!” Smith exclaims, his voice sharp in a way that pierces Chief’s heart. “Don’t move, either of you.” 

The three stand off. Smith keeps his gun on Chief, but watches Christian for the slightest movement. 

“Smith,” Chief says slowly. “Put the gun down. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“What *I’m* doing? I’m doing my job. I’m defending Riftdale against a threat. What are *you* doing, Chief?” 

Chief swallows. “I can explain.”

“Then do it!”

“I—“ he looks from Christian to Smith, and feels his throat catch. “It’s complicated.” 

The younger cop shakes his head, tears pushing up in his eyes, and Chief feels the same anxiety from that night he shot his partner. He’s hurting Smith, taking the trust so wholeheartedly given and shredding it. He’s betrayed his partner, his *boy*, and as he watches Smith’s expression grapple with a balance of despair and rage, confusion and conviction, Chief doesn’t think he can ever forgive himself for what he’s done. 

“Fuck this,” Christian interrupts, letting his arms fall. “You’re not going to shoot, kid. You’re too goody-goody.”

Smith aims the gun at the criminal again. “Don’t test me, Priest!”

“Christian,” Chief warns, “this really isn’t the time—“

“Your wonder boy’s a softie, Chief. He wouldn’t be able to shoot if I actually were trying to kill you.”

“That’s a lie!” Smith’s hands are steady holding the gun, and Chief recognizes this. Something about Smith has been pulled taut, forced to bear weight. He wonders what’s happened to his partner while he’s been distracted with Christian.

“How about we all try to calm down,” he says.

“I’m not lowering the gun until I have an explanation for what’s going on!”

”Well, the fuck does it look like?”

“*Christian*.”

“I’m tired of being hunted, Chief. And of all the shit I’ve done, our relationship is the one that gives people the least amount of reason to point a gun at me.”

“Relationship?” Smith exclaims. “You mean, this has been going on for a while? Chief, is . . . is Christian Ben?”

Chief grits his teeth. “Yes.”

Smith lets go of the gun with one hand to hold his forehead with the other. “What’s happened to you? Are you brainwashed? Is he forcing you into this?

“*Excuse me?*”

“Stand down, Christian.”

“Do you hear what he’s accusing me of?”

Smith retorts, “You’re a killer! A low-life! Why would I think it’s above you to coerce Chief into being on your side?”

Christian starts forward. “Why, you little fuck!”

“Stand back!” Smith aims the gun with both hands.Chief tries to pull Christian back.

“Hold on now!” 

“I’m not going to stand around and let him insult me.”

“It’s not an insult if it’s the truth! You killed a woman!”

“It was the only way out.”

“From the mess you put yourself in. You’re volatile. A threat to everyone you’re around. So I don’t care what’s going on with you and Chief, I’m going to protect the citizens of Riftdale if it means taking your life!”

Smith fires. The bullet hits. But not the target it intended.

Because the second Smith moves to pull the trigger, Chief lunges. Neutralize the threat before the threat neutralizes you—or anyone you care about. Chief gets in the way of Christian, tries to push them both out of the line of fire. He only half succeeds.

The bullet shoots through him and comes out the other side. Chief wobbles on his feet, looks down to see dark gray rushing out of his chest. He collapses.

“Chief!” Smith throws the gun down and he and Christian rush to the fallen cop. His blood’s already spilling onto the floor, turning ugly crimson on the hardwood. It’s the only colour in all the apartment. 

Christian pulls off his jacket, pressing it over the wound to try to stop the bleeding. Smith calls dispatch from his on-body radio.

The last thing Chief sees before his world goes black are the two people he cares most about in the world, filled with complete and utter panic.  
\---  
“Susan. Susan!”

“Smith, is that you? You have to explain who you are on the radio, you know.”

“Susan, I need help. Officer down. Chief’s hurt!”

“Calm down, Smith, over the radio I can barely make you out. Did you say officer down? What happened?“

“I’m at Chief’s apartment, and he’s been shot. Oh god, Susan, please, send an ambulance!”

“Smith, what’s going on? Are you in danger? Who’s shooting at you?”

“Nobody, I—“ He wails. “I shot Chief!”  
\---  
Everything from that point onward is seen through a haze and felt through thick water. Time passes like oil being rinsed off, with EMS arriving and speeding off with an unresponsive Chief. Christian and Smith are left standing on the sidewalk and watch the vehicle speed off. Only then do they acknowledge the other’s existence. “You got a car?” Christian asks. 

“I drove over in the police cruiser.”

He nods. “Then let’s go.”

There’s no question to it, despite their circumstances only moments ago. Their priorities are focused on Chief. Smith will deal with Christian’s criminal behaviour once he knows his partner is alright. 

He has to be alright, right?


	14. Chapter 14

The hospital room is white. The machines are white. Chief’s skin is white, even more than usual, pale from blood loss. Tubes feed in and out of him, doing human work for him, because his body wouldn’t be able to on its own. Smith wonders, does relying on technology for survival make Chief technically a cyborg? There are a lot of weird thoughts going through the young cop’s head; it’s three in the morning, and there’s no way he’d be able to sleep, so he’s staying up with Chief.

Christian walks back into the room from getting coffee. He’s not going anywhere, either, although Smith would love to make him. Smith has handcuffs, and could probably just hold them up and at this point, and Christian would be too tired to fight. But Smith feels the same way. As much as he hates the Priest, he can’t imagine deferring an ounce of his energy to dealing with Christian’s crimes. Smith is the one who shot Chief; his only concern should be how his partner is doing.

“Hey, wonder boy,” Christian speaks softly, tugging Smith out of his thoughts. The police officer looks up to see that the criminal came back with two cups, and is offering one forward.

“I only take my coffee with lots of milk. I wouldn’t like it black,” he explains. 

“Chief’s mentioned that before. Don’t worry, this thing’s like half creamer.”

Smith hesitates, then takes the cup. Christian walks around Chief’s bed to his chair on the opposite side. He sits down by just letting his body fall. “Of course, I doubt shitty coffee from the hotel concession is something that can be ‘liked’,” he says. Smith doesn’t reply.

The pain of their circumstances is a spring-loaded trap, for Smith. He’s hurting because he’s the one who shot Chief, but the second he thinks too much about it, questions seep in like toxins. Was Chief really dating Christian this whole time? How did that even start? How could Chief betray the squadron, betray *Smith* like this? What is it about the criminal that’s so worth the damage?

He doesn’t like that Christian’s here, claiming the same amount of care in this scenario as Smith has. It can’t be genuine. But Christian holds Chief’s hand, and watches his face for signs of stirring, and breathes like he’s the one in pain. Smith has to admit, if it’s a performance, then Christian should have been an actor instead of a crook.

Smith sips his coffee because there’s nothing else to do. Christian was right, it tastes awful, but the beverage fits the atmosphere. Unpleasant and necessary. Smith needs the caffeine to keep him up, because he doesn’t want to learn what kind of nightmares this mess will bring. 

\---

Christian knows the kid he’s sitting across from was going to kill him earlier in the day. It’s already forgiven. Kind of has to be, if he wants to believe in his own potential for reconciliation, and besides, he knows where Smith was coming from. He would have shot if he were in the same place.

He tries to show he’s not all bad. Getting coffee, trying to talk. The younger cop takes the drink but not the conversation bait, and Christian decides to drop it. Pushing too hard might make things worse. 

He wants the kid to know that he doesn’t have to worry about his partner doing wrong. That Chief never shut up about Smith, about needing to protect him and encourage him and treat him like a son. Christian wants to help Smith forgive Chief, while there’s time. 

The doctors aren’t certain in how it will turn out. Not looking good or bad, which is still horrible to hear. Christian looks at the stagnant face of his boyfriend and thinks, God, Chief doesn’t deserve to die. Definitely not over this. Definitely not because of his kid. Christian would cross any barrier to prevent the worst, would try everything including . . . 

*Fuck,* he thinks. He’d try everything including the impossible. 

So Christian inhales, trying to remember his hopeful days, when he first joined the church and believed his sins could be forgiven if only he was good. Because he did have that faith, once. He believed, and it’s been a rough time since that age, but he has no other options right now. 

Christian, the criminal, the murderer, stares at the man he loves most in the world. And he starts to pray.

In the name of the father, son, and holy spirit, amen. Christian rests his elbows on the side of Chief’s bed and clasps his hands together, glancing to the stucco’d ceiling before shutting his eyes. 

*Dear Father . . . it’s me. I know I haven’t done this in a while, and I’m sure you’re well aware of the reasons why. I am not a good person. I have not done good things. However, this isn’t about me. It’s about Chief.

If you’re real, maybe you’re doing this out of spite. Maybe you’ve realized how good he is to me, and you’re taking him away as another fuck you to my face. Or you have no hand in this, and are watching just like I am to see how this plays out. Either way, it’s a dick move. I’m begging you to reconsider your stance. 

Chief is good. The best person I know, certainly. I mean, there’s Smith, but Chief’s actually seen the scum of society, the shit swept into corners to decompose while the rest of the world moves on. He’s had to do shit, to protect others. He’s the type of good with hard edges, made from difficult choices, sharpened to protect the parts of the world that need to stay soft. And that’s important. You can’t take him away from the world because it needs people like him. And he needs more time here, because he doesn’t deserve to die. He’s worked so hard to de-fuck the world, and should at least be allowed to bask in the good parts of it a while longer.*

Once he’s thought everything he’s needed to, he just prays for Chief’s recovery over and over, like a mantra, not thinking words so much as imagining Chief’s healing, trying to will it into reality from his thoughts. 

“What are you doing?”

His eyes snap open to find Smith watching him from across the bed, head cocked like a puppy’s. “Praying,” he answers quietly, not really wanting to admit it out loud. Smith’s head tilts further.

“Could . . . could I help?”

“Uh, sure, you can pray too. There’s not a lot you have to do, you just go for it.”

“But what do I say?”

Jesus Christ, Christian can’t believe he’s doing this. “Clasp your hands and bow your head, and just think about Chief. I’ll recite the Lord’s prayer, I guess, if that makes it feel more legit.”

Smith nods, then furrows his brow. He attempts the sign of the cross—he touches his forehead, right shoulder, chest, left shoulder, and looks to Christian for approval. “Close enough,” he says, and the cop obediently closes his eyes, settling in to think. Christian does the same, and a familiar mixture of words start pouring over his tongue:

“Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.”

“Amen,” Smith echoes, looking up. They both stare at Chief’s unresponsive form for a while. Smith sighs. “He loves you,” he whispers.

“What?” 

Christian looks over and realizes that Smith isn’t talking *about* him, but *to* him. “I know he does,” the younger cop explains, “because he said you were Ben. I asked him if he loved Ben, once, and he didn’t answer, but if the answer was no he would have told me outright. He loves you, Christian. I don’t know why, but he does.”

Christian stares at his lap. “He loves you, too. I mean, you’re like his kid, to him.”

He glances up to catch Smith nodding, looking off into an empty part of the room. Suddenly he winces, and holds the side of his head. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Smith grimaces. “Just headaches. They come more often when I’m tired or stressed. I usually just power through.” He pauses. “Especially if I know Chief is around to see.”

Christian can’t stand it. He has to try to explain, at least. “He was doing the same for you. That’s the only reason he didn’t tell you about me, Smith; he didn’t want to lie to you or hide anything, but he knew that it would hurt for you to find out. And he hated it, every time we saw each other, because he couldn’t stand the thought of you finding out. He wasn’t trying to break your trust.”

Smith stares at him, alarmed. Christian pulls his collar away from his neck. “It’s not my place to make excuses for him. I know that’s between the two of you. I just thought, maybe it would help to know.”

“Well, I think we’ve both said everything we’ve needed to, to each other. So we can stop talking.”

Smith’s polite anger stings in a way Christian’s unused to. He shuffles in his seat and focuses on Chief again. 

It’s going to be a long night.


	15. Chapter 15

Chief opens his eyes. 

The first thing he notices is pain, in the side of his chest where the bullet hit, spidering out through his torso. The second thing is Smith, who’s climbed into his hospital bed and sleeps curled into Chief’s opposite side. Thirdly, Christian’s passed out in a chair beside them. 

Chief has no clue what’s happened since he blacked out, but nobody’s dead yet, and he takes that as a good sign. He’d love to let them all rest in this pacifistic moment, staying together without the drama, but he needs to shift around after lying down for so long. Of course this wakes up Christian, ever the light sleeper, and the second he’s up he’s exclaimaing, “Chief!”

Smith groans and pushes himself up in the bed. His eyes go wide when he sees his partner awake, and he grabs onto Chief for a hug. “Hey, now,” Chief says, but is silenced when Christian leans over for a grateful kiss. 

When the kiss ends, Chief glances over to see Smith watching unhappily. The younger cop looks away as soon as they make eye contact. 

“Are you okay?” Christian asks. “We can call a nurse over if you need shit.”

“No, I’m fine. How are you two? What’s happened?”

“Nothing much,” Smith answers. “We’ve both been waiting here for you to wake up. Nobody remembers Christian needs to be arrested, and when I said that I shot you . . .”

“The officers were perfectly understanding that an unknown assailant had assaulted Chief in his apartment, right, Smith?” Christian raises an eyebrow. “And that you’d managed to get their gun, but your missing eye put your aim off, and you ended up shooting Chief by accident?”

The younger cop swallows and looks down. “That sure is what you told them, when questioned.” 

Chief feels a part of him relax. “So everything’s okay?” 

“Well. Legally.” Christian looks from cop to cop. He stands up, putting his hands in his pockets. “I’m . . . going to get another coffee. You two should talk, for a bit. I’ll, uh, be back later.” He leaves the room.

Both police officers watch him go. Chief turns back to Smith, and the younger cop can feel eyes on him, but he can’t return the gaze. He stares down, gripping the hospital blankets in his hands, and despite his intentions all of his stress comes to a head in this moment. He breaks down weeping, quietly, and Chief pulls him in and holds him. If Smith looked up then, he’d see that the older cop had tears in his eyes, too.

Smith wails into Chief’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m sorry for crying and I’m sorry I shot you and I’m sorry, I’m just so—so—“ He starts coughing, hands in fists, sobs coming out ugly and strained. And he says something he never has before. “I’m so *angry*, Chief.”

Chief closes his eyes. “It’s okay,” he replies softly. “You’re allowed to be. I kept a big secret from you, Smith, and you’re allowed to hurt because of that.”

“I just don’t understand. Why Christian? And how?” Smith sniffles. 

Chief tries to move, then winces at the pain it brings. He stares at his partner, his puffy-from-crying face and his honest eye, and realizes the only thing to do is start from the beginning, and explain everything. 

So he does. Leaving no detail out, even when he thinks he should. Because Smith can’t understand unless he knows all of it. So he tells Smith about the night at the bar and all the meetings afterwards, doing his best to showcase the effort Christian’s putting into getting better. Smith listens quietly through all of it, only interrupting to ask a clarifying question or two, and when Chief’s done, he’s still silent. 

“Smith,” Chief says, “I forgive you for shooting me. I’m okay if you’re angry. All I need is for you to know that you’re my partner, and that I care about you.”

Smith smiles shyly at Chief. “So . . . you agree that my idea for dealing with criminals is best?”

Chief frowns. “*That’s* your takeaway from everything?”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly ‘talking’ to Christian. But maybe this is a psychological breakthrough!” Smith grins wider. “To turn a criminal good, all you have to do is smooch them enough times!”

“Smith.”

“I wonder what Susan will think about this idea.”

“Smith!”

The young officer laughs. Despite himself, Chief is glad for it. It appears things between them will turn out, after all.

“I guess I should go get Christian then, huh?” Smith slides off of the bed. “You two probably wanna talk more, after all this.” 

“That would be great.”

Smith shoots Chief finger guns and heads off to find Christian. Outside of the hospital room, the hallway is empty. No problem! Smith heads off in the direction of the hospital concession. No Christian there, either. He checks around the surrounding hallways, the hospital foyer, the smoking area outside. Nothing.

Smith rechecks the areas he’s already gone through. Maybe he walked right by Christian without knowing! When that doesn’t help, however, he backtracks to Chief’s room, hoping Christian somehow returned on his own. A peek past the door reveals a resting Chief and not much else. Smith turns around and slouches against the wall, rubbing his face with his hands. 

That’s when he hears a familiar scathing voice coming out of the nearby men’s washroom.

“—want out. I don’t care, but leave me alone. I’m done.”

Smith inches into the bathroom. Christian’s leaning on the counter, on the phone, glaring at his reflection. Despite not being on speakerphone, the voice on the other end carries. An artificially-deepened reply comes, something about forgetting, and about police officers, and incarceration. 

“You wouldn’t dare. I have information on you. I could tear your organization apart!”

This time, Smith can hear the other side clearly: “You think they’d believe a low-life like you?”

Christian says nothing, instead hanging up the phone with a hard button press and splashing his face with water from the sink. Smith moves forward cautiously. “Christian?”

“Jesus!” The crook jumps, then groans while rubbing the bridge of his nose. “How long have you been there?”

“A little while. Uh, Chief and I finished talking. He’d like to see you.”

“I can’t. I— I need to go.” He laments to the ceiling, “After everything I’ve done, I need to leave! I can’t escape this!” He pulls at his hair.

“Leave?” Smith says. “You can’t *leave*.”

“I have more people after me than just cops like you. If I stay around, trying to be good, it’ll put me in danger. Put Chief in danger, too.”

“Chief’s a police officer, though. We’re kind-of always in danger. And with the squad, we have help. We can take down these people, whoever they are; you can give us information, like you said!”

“Who’s going to believe the information I give? Now that I’m not on the Oculus’ side, everyone will remember what I’ve done, and who I am.”

“It’s not who you are, though. It’s who you used to be. There’s a difference.”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Both the good and the bad sides will be after me, and I won’t stand a chance. Even hanging out here is dangerous, because I don’t think they know about my connection to Chief yet, and sticking around longer makes it more likely they’ll find out.” He looks at himself one last time in the mirror, and nods solemnly. “See you, kid,” he says to Smith, and strides out.

“Wait!” Smith races into the hallway after him, grabbing his arm and spinning him around. “You’re just going to go? After everything?” 

“It’s all I can do to keep everyone safe. Means to an end, remember? I don’t want to get anybody hurt— not anymore.” He pulls himself out of Smith’s grip and looks at the cop with sad eyes. “Tell Chief thanks, alright? Tell him—that he made me feel salvageable.” With that he heads off, leaving the young cop to watch in despair.   
\---  
Christian is waiting in the hallway, minding his own business when his phone rings. His heart sails into his foot soles—with Chief in bed, there‘s no guessing as to who the caller is. Only one other contact has his number. Christian paces the hallway, wondering if he‘s more or less screwed if he refuses to pick up. Eventually he has to answer, though, and he heads to the bathroom for privacy.

The conversation is short and to the point, and at the end of it, Christian knows he’s doomed. He can’t fight back now, not when Chief’s made him so soft. He can’t attack and he doesn’t want to run. However, the latter seems to be the only option. 

When Smith confronts him, he doesn’t know how to break it to the kid. He decides rushing out is best, to save the grief, to pull the trigger against hope’s skull before anyone can realize it’s in danger. It’s easier, walking out of the hospital without a goodbye. He can pretend he’s allowed back, this way. He can lie, because he’s had the practice at it, hasn’t he?

So that’s what he does. He leaves, he lies, he pretends it doesn’t hurt. After working so hard, after doing so much, he puts it all behind him, and it works. He has connections, after all. It’s easy to pick up another gun and find a new hideout, to return to petty grifts as a means of income. In the same way that dirt washes off, it can cling back on. 

He holes up in an abandoned building on the bad side of Riftdale, and as he hits rock bottom it feels like returning to a childhood home. He lets his clothes stain, his hair go greasy, and in a moment of weakness, his coke stache make a triumphant comeback. He buys off of some nobody in an alleyway, takes the drug back to his place, and buries his face in it. Like an infant nuzzling in search of milk, or some semblance of comfort and innocence, he uptakes the coke into his nose, and once it hits him he feels better. He’s a super villain, an unstoppable force, a metal wall. He doesn’t need Chief. He doesn’t need love. He’s fine. 

And yet, Christian spends his nights awake, replaying memories as he stares at whatever roof currently covers his head. He wants to see Chief, spend an evening with him, inhale the scent of nicotine and printer ink and *safety*. But the criminal’s martyred his yearnings for everyone’s wellbeing. He could never make himself go back.

Then, one night, he’s gazing out at Riftdale from a seedy hotel room. Inside his jacket, his burner phone rings.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much.

The first time Chief calls, Christian is overcome with anxiety. He panics, feeling it buzz overtop his heart, and it takes him so long to get the phone out that the call’s already gone to voicemail. He listens to the message alone in his room, in bed with the lights off. As soon as it’s done he repeats it. And repeats it. And repeats it.

More messages come as the days go on. Christian never once answers, but he listens to everything Chief says. He saves the messages, transfers them to an old mp3 so he can listen to them everywhere: on the bus, in the middle of recording a scam video, while falling asleep. He doubts he could ever pick up when the cop calls. One night, however, after letting the phone ring and ring, Christian can’t take it. He holds it up to his head, holds his breath, and hits answer. 

“ . . . Hello?” Chief’s voice is scratchy over the line, but it’s still so irrevocably *him*. Christian has to make a physical effort not to whine. “Shit, I guess voicemail picked up without me noticing this time. I’ve been like that a lot, lately, not noticing things. I think it’s because next Monday keeps getting closer, the day I return to duty. It sure has been a while, off the force. Without you.

“Anyway, I don’t have much news to tell you. Things have been pretty quiet around here. Smith’s actually befriended that art guy, Bartholomew, so they’ve been hanging out a lot. It’s given me time to be on my own. It’s good, too, to see the kid making other friends. I’m happy for him.

“I hope you’re doing okay. Remember to drink some water, if you’re listening to this, alright? And brush your teeth. If you even have a toothbrush on hand, which I’m assuming you don’t. Well—go wash your face, then. Wash something. You probably reek. . . .”

Chief keeps talking, but Christian can’t take it. He hangs up, which probably causes confusion on Chief’s end, but he has no time to think about that as hot tears well up in his eyes. He grimaces, then sobs into his hands. It’s Chief’s fault for making him cry with all of the sappy self-care reminders, really. They get to Christian every time.

The criminal wails until his neighbour bangs on the wall, telling him to shut it. Christian wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, knowing he can’t go on like this. Something has to be done.  
\---  
Chief doesn’t want his first day back on duty to be a big deal. So, of course, Smith prepared a surprise welcome from all of the workers, including a store-bought cake iced with beautiful cursive words: “Glad you didn’t die!” When Smith and the rest of the police force spring it on him, Chief has to resist the urge to smack the cake out of Smith’s hands, but the celebration makes the kid happy. That’s what matters, really.

Disregarding the impromptu party, Chief is thankful to be back. After taking time off to heal physically and adding on a few weeks for “emotional recuperation”, he’s more than antsy to get back to work. He’s Chief, after all; police work is what he *does*. He keeps Riftdale safe, with his partner. There’s nothing he wants more than that. 

Well. Mostly.

When Smith came back to his hospital room to break the news of Christian leaving, Chief thought the kid’s sense of humour had finally been corrupted. After all, he couldn’t have been serious, could he? Christian wouldn’t go. They’d spent so much time together. They’d fought for too much. 

Smith babbled on about Christian wanting everyone out of harm’s way, about his intent being in the right place. It was clear the younger cop had no idea what to make of this decision, either. He was trying to sugarcoat it, for Chief’s sake. Chief just shook his head and said it was something to deal with later; right then he only wanted to be alone, to sleep more. That was true, as he was still exhausted, but Christian leaving without even a goodbye was something he needed to process alone. 

He processed it that night, and all the days after while in the hospital. He processed it coming home, and going to checkups. He dreamt about it. And he couldn’t accept it. 

He had no clue if Christian still had his burner phone on him. The smart decision would have been to throw it away. But Chief called it late one night, and kept calling. He left voicemails while having no clue if they were being listened to. He told Christian how the healing was going, how Smith was acting, how the rest of the squad was remembering ‘the Priest’ but had no leads. He told Christian he missed him. He told Christian he loved him. He reminded Christian to take a goddamn bath, once in a while, and to try to eat something—including a vegetable, if possible. It didn’t matter what Chief said, it all got no response. 

He should have given it up. But it became a ritual, for a while, to keep calling. It made him feel better, because despite his pessimism, he could pretend he was getting through to the man he loved.

Chief shakes himself out of his thoughts and focuses on the paperwork on his desk in front of him. It’s all routine, and he’s able to lose himself in the job, successfully forgetting about Christian for a while. And, for a moment, Chief wonders if this is the way it will end for the two of them. Chief returns to work, and Christian to . . . whatever he’s doing now, and they both fall back into their old schedules. The incident, now behind them, can fade to an outlier of their routine experiences, not to be counted. Only excluded, and eventually forgotten.

Chief considers this possibility. It wouldn’t be a bad one, as he still has his job and his partner, and there’s fulfilment to be found in both of those places. However, they’re not Christian. They’re not the man who lives in a world of colour, but dresses exclusively in black and white. They’re not the misanthrope who tries drinking white milk. They’re not the cold-hearted murderer who let Chief break down in his arms. 

Chief wonders if he’ll be stuck like this forever, pining over a man who could be a killer again or even dead by now. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get his hopes lifted again. Then, Smith interrupts Chief’s brooding with a tap on the shoulder. 

“There’s a delivery here for you,” he says, a watermelon-slice smile on his face. Chief frowns, but gets up to head to the front desk, unsure what to look forward to.

At the front, he stops dead in his tracks. Waiting for him by the doors is a deliverywoman holding a bouquet made of the most beautiful flowers he’s ever seen. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs as he accepts the delivery. He holds the flowers close and finds a sealed envelope tucked in between stems. He pulls it out and reads it carefully. It’s not a long note. 

“Smith!” Chief’s voice hits a note of urgency that makes everyone in the headquarters turn. Chief drops the bouquet on the nearest desk and is already backing towards the door as he calls out, “Smith, I’m going on break. I’ll meet up with you later, okay?” 

The rest of the squadron watches incredulously as the most serious man they know takes a deep breath, wrings his hands, and jogs out the door. Are second he’s outside, he breaks into a full sprint to the police cruiser, and takes off in the car with lights flashing. 

Once Chief’s gone, Smith bites his cheek and inspects the flowers Chief left behind, wondering what could make the older cop act so strange. He flips over the note and reads the messy handwriting. On the paper is an address, one Smith remembers belonging to the motel he and Chief nearly caught Christian at so many months ago. Below that are three words that make the younger cop grin:

“We are salvageable.” 

“Well? What’s going on?” Susan asks from her desk nearby. “Where is he going?”

“Oh, nowhere,” Smith replies. He beams wide. “He’s just visiting his boyfriend.”


End file.
